Dumbledore : Part I : The Phoenix
by Birnam Wood
Summary: Who were Dumbledore's parents? What was his family like? His childhood? What happened to Dumbledore before the first book? This story explains it all. Part I of a trilogy. Part I concentrates on Dumbledore's parents and the events leading up to his life.
1. Prologue

Author's Note: I don't want a huge author's note clogging up the page, so I'll try to make this short. This is the first part of what will eventually be a trilogy surrounding the life of Albus Dumbledore and his family. This first part will centre mostly on his parents and the events leading up to his birth.

What to expect: a multitude of original characters, but some canon characters will be appearing, of course, and most of the original characters are ancestors of the canon characters we are familiar with.

I have researched and tried to stay as close to canon as possible, but I know I'm bound to slip up, so if I do, please feel free to point out my mistakes! If you have any comments or questions about the story at all, please drop me a review, or come say hello on my livejournal, the link to which can be found in my profile.

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**Dumbledore (Part I – The Phoenix)**

******Prologue**

******- **

The family of Dumbledore was very well respected. They were not nobility, but were certainly acquainted with Lords and Ladies aplenty, and so thought that they might as well have been. Mr Thomas Dumbledore could trace his ancestry back to the Normans, and Mrs Isabel Dumbledore (nee Clarkend) traced hers back to the Saxons if she tried hard enough.

The Dumbledores had two houses: one on the coast of Cornwall, where they went often for the summer months, and one in Bath, where they spent the chief of their time. They had no house in London; Mrs Dumbledore told all of her friends that this was because she detested London, but it was really because they could not afford it.

Aside from their two houses, the Dumbledores also had four children, the eldest of whom was a very pretty, but very stiff girl called Rosamund. Rosamund was twenty two years old, and dwelled in a state of perpetual disappointment, for despite her pretty looks, and pretty name, and many pretty accomplishments, and the five hundred a year promised to her, all of which she had been assured would secure her a good husband, nothing of the sort had yet materialised.

The second child was a son called Terrence, who was very fond of women, cards, and drink. His parents still held out hope that he would become responsible on his twenty first birthday.

The third child, and the person on whom our story chiefly centres, was a boy called Percival, who was sixteen and very unremarkable. He had been to school, but he had left, and had also been instructed by a tutor, whom he had hated. He was now instructed by himself.

The last child was a girl called Maria, who was very handsome, very amiable, and very stupid. She had absolutely nothing to recommend her aside from her looks, temperament, and the fact that she could sing charmingly.

But let us first venture five years into the past, and for the moment return to Mrs Dumbledore. A very fine day in the summer of 1820 saw the post arrive, and as Mr Dumbledore, having over-exerted himself at the ball the night before was not yet up, Mrs Dumbledore was the first to get it. Upon sifting through the letters, she found one addressed to her second son and opened it – for whom, she reasoned, could have business addressing an eleven-year-old boy, and in emerald green ink, no less?

On reading the opening of the letter, she was struck silent for a good minute. On reading the rest of it, she was struck with such an agitation of nerves that she jumped up from her chair, paced around the room, and sat back down again five times in a row. The reason for Mrs Dumbledore's distress was that the opening line of the letter addressed her son as follows: "Dear Mr Dumbledore, we are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry." The rest of the letter went on to tell about this supposed school of magic, and included a list of items that her son would be required to purchase; things such as cauldrons, and toads.

Mrs Dumbledore was sure that this was somebody's idea of a joke. Yes, it had to be. She became quite indignant, wondering who would be foolish enough to think that she and her husband would be taken in by such a scheme. And why on earth involve their young son in it?

Well, thought Mrs Dumbledore fretfully, Percival _was_ a bit odd. But she did not think that any stranger would have noticed the child's slight eccentricity. The letter writer must have been someone intimately acquainted with the family, then. But who? One of the servants? For a moment she entertained the notion that it was Percival himself, playing a trick, but she quickly put that thought aside, given that the letter was not in a child's handwriting, and she did not think that Percival had access to green ink anyhow.

Mrs Dumbledore went through the whole of the morning in a state of noticeable vexation. Her husband, the children, and the servants all remarked upon it; but everyone who spoke to her seemed completely ignorant as to the cause of her distress, leading her to believe that the letter had indeed originated from outside the house.

She read it over twice more that day. She had to admit that whoever had written it had done a very convincing job of it. She even found herself wondering if it might all be real. Even so, should she send her son away to this so called 'Hogwarts' to learn magic? Mrs Dumbledore did not think it wise to send her son off to magic school when he could just as well attend Eton or Harrow. And certainly there would be questions regarding where the boy had gone. She could not very well say that he had gone to any sort of respectable institution at all, because someone would be sure to have a son or a nephew there, and would point out that there was no one called Percival Dumbledore at such-and-such a place. Telling all of her acquaintance that she had sent her son off to school to learn to become a wizard was out of the question, and so she resolved to think of the letter as she had first done – as a joke – and told herself that she would never look at it again.

Mrs Dumbledore waited anxiously all summer, but no other letters came. On the first of September, she breathed a sigh of relief, and, being a very sensible sort of woman, laughed at herself for ever having taken such a thing seriously.

Meanwhile, she had not had much time to think about Percival that year. Mrs Dumbledore was quite disheartened that, though seventeen and very agreeable, not one gentleman had yet showed any inclination to marry her eldest daughter Rosamund. Apart from that, she was trying to persuade Terrence against joining the military (he had heard that ladies greatly admired men in the regiment), and Maria was going through a very trying stage, and demanding her full attention. Percival seemed content to stay in his room and read, and Mrs Dumbledore was content to let him do so, despite her husband's concerns that the boy was becoming too idle.

It was partly these concerns, and partly an event which occurred close to Percival's twelfth birthday that prompted Mr and Mrs Dumbledore to finally take a course of action concerning the boy.

It was a clear, warm day near the end of April, and the whole family was sitting together outside. Mr and Mrs Dumbledore were arguing about something in the newspaper, Rosamund was at her needlework, Terrence was examining his reflection in a puddle, and Percival was reading. Maria was sitting in the shelter of the pavilion with her elder sister. Growing bored of this, she ventured over to Percival, and snatched the book he was reading out of his hands.

"Give it back," Percival demanded in an irritated manner. The girl simply laughed and skipped further away. "Give it back!" He exclaimed loudly.

"Percival, really!" His mother scolded. "Let your little sister have the book."

"It won't do her any good anyway," Percival protested, standing. "It's written in Latin."

His mother regarded him with a shocked expression for a moment and then said, "Wherever did you learn to read Latin?"

"I taught it to myself," Percival replied. "Maria, _give it back_!"

The little girl stuck out her tongue and threw the book into a nearby puddle. It happened to be the one that Terrence had been admiring himself in, and he swore loudly, but nobody noticed, because Maria was dangling upside-down in the air.

Mrs Dumbledore screamed. Her husband shouted. Rosamund jabbed herself in the thumb with her needle out of surprise. Terrence was lamenting the mud which had splashed up onto his clothing, and Maria was sobbing to be let down. Percival had gone very red, more out of frustration than anything else, and a good many of the servants came running to see what the commotion was.

By the time they had all managed to put Maria right-side-up, Percival had locked himself in his bedroom, and subsequently refused to emerge for two days straight, during which time he suffered no one to see him.

In these two days, Mr and Mrs Dumbledore deliberated, and the conclusion was drawn that Percival ought to be sent away to school – a completely respectable, completely non-magical place called Eton. Mr Dumbledore was not sure exactly how his youngest daughter had ended up upside-down (Mrs Dumbledore had never showed him or anyone else the letter), but felt that it must have had something to do with Percival. This, coupled with his long-held belief that the boy was becoming increasingly idle, prompted him to send him off to school immediately.

"Do not worry," he told his wife, when she expressed some concern about the scheme, "he will do very well at school, I am sure. He taught himself Latin, after all. He's made out to be a scholar."

Percival was wary of going away to school at first, but it took only his parents' assurances that he would be learning a great deal to convince him. Percival was very fond of learning things, and it seemed to him a very good thing that there should be an entire institution dedicated to teaching him.

Eton was not at all what he had expected, though, and he found himself sorely disappointed. The lessons were tedious, and his work suffered. He hated the teachers because they were strict, and in turn they did not like him because he was such a poor pupil. All of the other boys disliked him very much – there was something simply _wrong_ about him, they thought – and children are always happy to join together in the act of derision.

There was also the troubling fact that strange things seemed to happen when Percival was upset. Another boy had thrown a chunk of ice at him once in the winter, but the ice had burst into flame and melted away before it had even come close to his face. Another time, a group of boys who had been teasing him particularly cruelly found that all of their teeth had vanished the next morning. They grew back by dinner time, but it was still the cause of much disconcertion, and a popular rumour that Percival was the Devil began to circulate.

Percival found himself so miserable at Eton that he wrote to his parents, begging them to let him come home. His parents, tempered by the months since the upside-down incident, and genuinely missing their son, agreed. So it was that Percival returned home after spending less than a year at school, and being no better for it than knowing a few words in Greek, which he promptly forgot. He was of the opinion for the rest of his life that he would have learnt a great deal more by staying at home.

To make up for his not being in school, Percival's parents employed the services of a highly recommended tutor by the name of Mr Harley. Mr Harley was very severe, and Percival hated him. Percival wondered if he might learn Italian – Mr Harley said that only girls learnt Italian. Percival wondered if he might practice writing instead of arithmetic – Mr Harley said that writing stories was a waste of time, especially for young men. Percival said that if that was the case, he did not want to be a young man, and remarked that if he could borrow some of his sister's clothing, he might pass as a young lady instead. Mr Harley was so shocked by this comment that he assigned him extra grammar.

Percival endured Mr Harley till he was fifteen. One day in June, he was coming up the stairs, and met Mr Harley, who instantly began berating him for neglecting his studies. "Where have you been?" He asked sharply. "Where are you going now? What do you think is more important than the advancement of your learning?" Percival was not at all in the mood to hear any of this. His family was to leave for Cornwall soon, where he was looking forward to an entire summer without Mr Harley breathing down his collar. To be stopped now upon the stairs and lectured by him was not at all to his liking. Then, quite suddenly, Mr Harley fell silent; this was because his mouth had disappeared.

Percival felt both surprised and elated. He was quite sure that it would grow back, if the events back at Eton were any example to go by, and so he allowed himself to be amused. Mr Harley seemed utterly bewildered. This odd scene was broken by Mrs Dumbledore coming in the door and inquiring as to what was going on.

This startled Percival and, although he had not been _completely_ positive that he had been the cause of his tutor's vanishing mouth, when his concentration was compromised, it was immediately back in place.

Mr Harley wasted no time using it again. "You devil!" He shouted at Percival, and made the sign of the cross. He had gone very pale.

This angered Mrs Dumbledore a great deal. "What on earth is the meaning of this?" She demanded. But Mr Harley would not answer her. He went upstairs, and gathered his belongings and then walked out the front door, and never came back to the house again.

Mrs Dumbledore was so disturbed by these events (she still vividly recalled the letter from years ago) that she did not lament Mr Harley's going, and she made no steps to hire another tutor for her son.

Percival was very well pleased by this. He could now devote the better part of his time to studying what he liked, and so he did. The result was that by the time he was sixteen years old, his knowledge was extensive, but not at all well rounded, and he had no idea what-so-ever as to which profession he wished to pursue.


	2. Chapter I

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed and read the prologue! Here is the first chapter. I hope you'll enjoy it. I have to say, I really am having a blast writing this. The next update should be on Tuesday or Wednesday. I'm currently trying to work out a sort of schedule. I'd like to update at least twice a week. Onto the story!

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**Dumbledore (Part I – The Phoenix)**

**Chapter I – The Girl and the Bird**

**- **

Bodmin Moor was a good place to go if you were seeking solitude. The Dumbledores' house in Cornwall was situated at the bottom of it, and the only settlement nearby was a little village up on the moor called Godric's Hollow. It was toward Godric's Hollow that Percival Dumbledore was walking one fine day in the summer of 1825. He had no particular business there, but he thought that having a set destination in mind was better than aimlessly wandering the moor, and he had not seen the village in many years.

Godric's Hollow was a picturesque sort of place. Goats and sheep grazed outside the village's crumbling, ancient stone walls. Inside the walls, there were a few houses, and a few shops, and a little stone church. On the eastern edge of the village, there was a gap in the wall that a beaten path passed through, and in the centre of this path, right outside the gap, was one large standing stone. A little ways down the path rested a large stone cottage, now quite overgrown and in a state of significant disrepair.

Percival strolled through the village, glancing into the windows of the shops he passed. Most were filled with very ugly hats and furniture that had been fashionable ten years ago. As he reached the outskirts of the village and went by the standing stone, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye by the cottage – it had appeared to be a small burst of flame – or had it just been a trick of the light?

He approached the house with a giddy feeling in his stomach, though he knew not why. Surely fire did not simply erupt in the air and then disappear. He must have imagined it. But still, he wondered... When he came to the door, he found it slightly awry. He peered inside and found himself looking into a wide, dusty corridor. A square of sunlight was shining onto the bare floor from a paneless window on the wall opposite to him. He knocked on the door and then, feeling stupid, went inside.

The cottage seemed to be completely forsaken, and he wondered if what he had seen really had been only a trick of the late afternoon sunlight, when suddenly he heard a voice to his right say, "Who are you?"

Percival was so startled that he let out a little shout, stumbled, and caught himself against the wall just in time. The person who had spoken was a little girl with reddish brown hair and an odd scar across one side of her nose – she could not have been more than ten or eleven – and he tried to make his breathing normal, and slow his racing heart, feeling stupider by the minute. "Sorry," he said. "Who are _you_? Do you live here?"

"No," the girl replied. "Nobody lives here anymore." She had a Scottish accent, and Percival wondered what an eleven-year-old Scottish girl was doing in an empty cottage in the middle of a moor in Cornwall.

"What are you doing here, then?" He asked.

"Come to see," she said simply. "My brother and I. It's our house."

Percival stared at her for a moment. "But you... you don't live here?"

Suddenly, they heard footsteps approaching from an adjacent room. "Cathy?" a male voice called, and then a young man stepped out into the corridor. He was quite tall, and had the same colour hair as the girl, so Percival assumed that this must be her brother. He regarded Percival suspiciously for a moment. "Who are you?" He asked.

"It's – I'm from – I'm Percival, Percival Dumbledore," Percival replied, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed. "And you are - ?"

"Alistair Ollivander," the young man introduced himself. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. This is my little sister, Catherine. Are you from the village?"

"Oh, no," said Percival. "I'm from down... my family has a house down at the bottom of the moor, we – we stay there for the summer." He did not know why he was stammering. Something about these people – even the little girl – was slightly intimidating.

"Well – " Alistair began, but he was cut off by a sudden burst of flame in the middle of the corridor.

"Aha!" Percival exclaimed – he knew he had not been seeing things – but then he fell silent, for what had appeared in the corridor was very strange indeed.

It was a bird, but it was not a _normal_ bird. It was about the size of a swan, and had crimson feathers and a gold tail and beak. It regarded Percival placidly with shining black eyes.

"Err," said Alistair.

Percival supposed that he must have looked rather disconcerted, because Catherine said, "Oh, don't worry, it's only our phoenix. Phoenixes are very gentle creatures, you know. His name is Fawkes."

"Cathy!" Alistair hissed. "What if he's a _Muggle?_"

"Mug-what?" Percival said. He could not take his eyes off the bird – he had never seen anything like it. It almost seemed to radiate warmth, and something else, something that Percival could not identify.

"You _are_ a Muggle!" Alistair groaned.

"I beg your pardon!" Percival exclaimed. Whatever a Muggle was, it did not sound particularly complimentary.

"Now what are we going to do?" Alistair was looking accusingly at his little sister.

"It's not my fault!" She said defensively. "He didn't seem like a Muggle. Just do a charm or something. Take his memory away. Have they taught you to do that yet?"

"Even if they had," Alistair replied, "I can't do any magic outside of school, remember? I'm not seventeen yet, it's illegal."

Percival watched this exchange with mounting confusion. The phoenix seemed to have grown bored of it and fallen asleep on the floor near his feet. "I haven't a clue what you're talking about," he said finally.

Alistair rounded on him. "Where do you live?" He demanded.

Percival let out a short laugh. "I'm not telling you where I live," he said. "How do I know you won't come murder us all in our beds? If you're worried I'm going to tell someone about your bird – well – I won't. Are you happy?"

Alistair glanced down at Cathy, then back up at Percival. "Swear that you won't tell anyone anything that happened in this cottage today."

Percival glanced out the window. The sun was setting, and he needed to get going if he was going to arrive home before dark. He did not fancy finding himself alone at night on the moor. "Fine," he said, "I swear, I won't tell anyone anything. Can I go now, or do I need to sign it in blood as well?" He did not wait for an answer, but turned and started walking toward the door.

"You're really a joker!" Alistair called after him, and then he was out of the cottage and walking briskly off down the moor in the direction of his house.

He thought a great deal all the way there as the sun set in front of him. He wondered if perhaps he was going mad, if the girl and her brother and the phoenix had all been some sort of elaborate illusion. But the imagery did not fade as time progressed like a dream would, and the whole event was still fresh in his mind as he entered the house.

It stayed fresh in his mind all through supper, and for the rest of the night as well. He could hardly sleep. Something significant had happened in that cottage on the moor, something that was going to have a profound impact on his life, and he knew it. He wanted to tell someone – anyone – but he had sworn not to, and a Dumbledore always kept his word, unless there was some urgent reason not to.

Over the next few days, Percival grew increasingly restless, and finally formed the resolution to go back to the cottage and see if Catherine and Alistair were still there; and if they were, to question them about mugthings and magic and phoenixes, and what the meaning of it all was.

Unfortunately for Percival, as soon as he formed this resolution, it began to rain, and did not let up for three days. He could hardly venture out onto the moor in such weather. He sat dejectedly staring out the window for hours until his mother wondered if he was ill. By the time it let up raining, he supposed there was no hope of their still being there.

The day before the Dumbledores were set to leave Cornwall and return to Bath, Mrs Dumbledore sent Percival into her sitting room to check that she had not forgotten one of her rings in the desk drawer.

Percival opened the drawer and felt around inside. He could not perceive anything like a ring. He dug around in the bottom of the drawer, but came up with nothing, and he was just about to close it and inform his mother that her ring was not there, when something caught his eye.

It was a letter, addressed to him, and dated 1820. He regarded it strangely, thinking that it must have been buried somewhere in the bottom of the drawer and resurfaced as he was trying to find the ring. Wondering who on earth could have been writing to him in 1820, and why his mother had troubled to conceal it from him, he picked up the letter and opened it.

Written neatly in emerald green ink was this:

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

_Headmaster: Phineas Nigellus Black_

_Dear Mr Dumbledore,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 15. _

_Yours &c.,_

_Ignatius Lovegood_

_Deputy Headmaster_

Percival's hands shook a bit as he read it over again. It was all coming together now, but it was all coming together in a terribly confusing manner. At least this partially explained the strange conversation in the cottage – apparently there was a school for learning magic. Presumably things like phoenixes were not out of the ordinary there. As he was contemplating this, the door opened, and his mother came in.

He turned around and held out the letter. "Care to explain this?" he asked.

Her mouth fell open, and she stared in wide-eyed, almost comical horror at the parchment in his hand. "Where did you find that?" she managed to choke out.

"In your desk," he said coolly. "It was addressed to me. 1820, it said. Why did you hide it from me?"

Mrs Dumbledore had gone very pale and she was wringing her hands. She glanced out into the corridor and then closed the door. "Percival, dear," she said, her voice high-pitched and pleading, "it was obviously someone playing a joke – "

"I don't think so," Percival interrupted. "I know for a fact that I met people who go to this school, this Hogwarts." He was not actually entirely certain of this, but he thought it would be good to sound decisive. "Did you hide letters like this from Rosamund and Terrence and Maria too?"

"No," she said simply, sitting down and putting her hand to her forehead. "No, it was just you."

"And you're telling me," Percival continued angrily, "that I could have gone to school to learn _magic_, and instead you sent me to _Eton?_"

"I thought it was a joke!" His mother wailed. "It _is_ a joke! Percival, dear, do think about it – it is a joke, that's all it is. Put it away and think no more of it. Please, for my sake. I'll burn it – "

"No," he said, folding it neatly and placing it in his pocket. "I'm going to keep it." But he did not say anything else on the subject. He wanted to think things over for himself first.

And Percival did think a great deal. All the way back to Bath, his mother glanced nervously at him, as if worried that he would tell the rest of the family. She looked at his pocket several times, perhaps thinking that the letter might burst out and sing its contents to the whole coach – but Percival had hidden the letter in his shoe.

When they arrived home, Percival went directly to his room, and took out his books. He stayed there for three days, only emerging for meals, or to look for something in the library. He was searching for something, anything that would give him more information about Hogwarts, or magic, or phoenixes; a clue, or an allusion, even a word would suffice. He read the letter over several times, but could glean no new information from it. It did not even give the location of the school. Finally, when everything made sense, when there was a reason for the upside-down sister, and the burning ice, and the disappearing teeth and mouth, and all the other odd things that had happened throughout the years, he seemed to have hit a brick wall. It was incredibly frustrating.

Mrs Dumbledore, on the other hand, was extremely nervous. As she sat down to supper on the third night with her husband, Rosamund, and Percival (Terrence was at university and Maria was at school), she finally felt that it was imperative to say something. "Percival, dear, are you going to come out of your room at all tomorrow? We do miss seeing you during the day."

Percival mumbled something about research, and poked at his food. He was in abominably bad spirits. Mr Dumbledore looked from his son, who was scowling, to his wife, who was pale and drawn, and wondered what on earth was going on.

Percival returned to his room that night, and sat in the middle of the floor, and thought. There were books scattered all around him, and none of them had proved useful at all. He felt betrayed. Books had always held the answers to all of his problems, but now they just stared at him blankly. Then there was his mother – he knew that he was upsetting her, and he did not like to be the cause of her distress. Anyway, what could be done? The books were leading him nowhere. He would simply have to think of something else.

The next morning, Percival joined the family downstairs. His mother, though still on edge, seemed genuinely pleased, perhaps thinking that he had given up on the letter and its contents. As it were, Mrs Dumbledore had a very different letter in mind that morning. "Your aunt and uncle have invited us all to London for the winter," she said. "But I would really rather stay in Bath." She had been so persuasive about hating London, that she had even managed to convince herself of it.

"I am certainly not going to London," Mr Dumbledore said, flipping open the newspaper and frowning at it as if it were suggesting the trip. "Especially if it is only to visit your brother and you will not be there."

"Well!" Rosamund exclaimed, looking very well pleased, "I should love to go to London! I do so wish to see my aunt and uncle again, and my cousins, of course." The rest of the family knew very well that Rosamund hated her cousins and found her aunt and uncle exceedingly dull. They also knew that London was an excellent place for young ladies to find husbands.

"Well, wonderful," Mrs Dumbledore said. "Rosamund shall go to London for the winter. I think it is an excellent scheme, really, a change of society and – "

"I should like to go to London as well," Percival said suddenly.

Everyone stared at him. "I thought you hated London," his father said.

"I changed my mind," Percival replied. "When do we leave, then?"

"They expect you at the beginning of December, I believe," answered his mother.

"Mama," Rosamund spoke up, looking not so well pleased now, "Mama, I do not think that Percival should come to London. He might catch cold like he did the last time we were there."

"I won't catch cold," Percival insisted.

"Well..." Mrs Dumbledore regarded him for a moment, and then seemed to relax. "No, no, I think it would be a very good thing for Percival to go to London. He is so little out of the house – yes, Percival really ought to go to London."

"Excellent," said Percival. He knew what is mother was thinking – that he would go to London and forget about schools of witchcraft and wizardry. In fact, Percival's idea was quite the opposite. For, he reasoned, if he were to find out anything about any of this, what better place to do it in than London?


	3. Chapter II

**Author's Note: **Still reading? Huzzah! Yes, we're back again now, with the second chapter! I think this is the longest of all the chapters I've written yet, except maybe the fifth one. Yes, I'm writing ahead. This won't be one of those fan fictions that the author abandons part way through. That's always frustrating, isn't it? Of course, I can't make any promises - if I get decapitated, for example, I can't see how I'd continue to write. But I'd certainly try.

I haven't yet worked out a solid schedule for updating, but the next chapter should appear either on Thursday or Friday. I meant to wait till Wednesday with this one, but I couldn't resist. Chapter IV will probably appear on Saturday or Sunday, because it takes place on Christmas Eve and Christmas, and, well, why not?

Anyway, this note has been too long as it is. If you have any comments, questions, criticisms, or inane babble you'd like to throw my way, review! I won't pretend I don't love reviews. You can also e-mail me or comment in my livejournal if you like.

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**Dumbledore (Part I – The Phoenix)**

**Chapter II – The Irishman**

-

Percival had never hated Bath so much as he did in the two months leading up to his departure for London. The ornate buildings and gardens now seemed trite and boring. The girls next-door whom he used to think very pretty now annoyed him. It rained too much. The hills around the city seemed to hold everyone in like stagnant water in a bowl. He could not imagine why anyone came to Bath for their health.

When it was not raining, Percival went often for walks through the city. His father remarked that it was good to see him taking exercise. He said that the only thing excessive reading ever did for anyone was to make them stupid and fat. Percival was inclined to disagree. He could have pointed out a good many people who were stupid and fat without ever having looked at a book. But getting out of the house made the days go by faster.

On a chilly day in the middle of November, Percival stood looking out over the River Avon, and leaning slightly on the stone wall of the bridge. Brown leaves swirled along the river and the wind made ripples across its surface. A discarded newspaper floated by, and before it was lost under the bridge, Percival caught the headline:

**BLACK CRITICISED IN MUGGLEBORN RECRUITMENT SCANDAL**

There was that word again – 'Muggle'. Percival ran to the other side of the bridge, but the paper was already out of sight. He contemplated jumping in after it, but the water looked cold, and it was moving fast, and he did not fancy being swept off to wherever the River Avon led (he thought it might be Wales – he had never been good with geography). He swore under his breath.

But after this, Percival was in a good mood for the remainder of his time in Bath. The newspaper had renewed some of his hope. It had served as further proof that there were wizards and witches out there, and he knew that if he just looked hard enough, he would find them. He clung to the letter, and the memory of the phoenix and the newspaper headline as a child clings to a favourite doll or blanket for reassurance.

Finally the day arrived when he and Rosamund were to depart for London. Their mother and father bid them farewell, told them to write often, and to not give their aunt and uncle too much trouble, and then they were off.

The journey to London went very well. Both Rosamund and Percival were in high spirits all the way there. The weather was very fine for the first of December, and the passing English countryside still clung to some of the faded beauty of Autumn.

Rosamund chatted throughout the whole first half of the trip, and Percival was in such an unnaturally good mood that he indulged her. Rosamund fell asleep during the second half of the trip, and Percival amused himself by staring out the window and thinking. He could never read on coaches as it made him feel sea-sick. As night fell, there was nothing to see from the window of the coach, and Percival tried to sleep as well, but he was far too excited, well aware that every turn in the road brought them closer to London.

As the night wore on, Percival felt as though they had been travelling forever. Rosamund woke up as they entered the city, berated Percival for allowing her to fall asleep, and spent the next ten minutes making sure her hair had not been ruined. At long last, they reached their aunt and uncle's house, and were hardly in the front door when their aunt descended upon them.

Mrs Clarkend was a formidable woman. If Percival had had to describe her, he would have called her round and cushiony. She had pink cheeks, light hair, and bright eyes. "Oh, my dears!" She exclaimed, kissing both Rosamund and Percival on the cheek in turn. "We are so happy you've come to stay with us for the winter! Oh, London can be so dull sometimes – and how is your mother?" She did not allow them time to answer this, however, and continued, "Come, come, we've kept supper waiting till now. Oh, your uncle and cousins will be so pleased to see you..." And she led them off down the corridor toward the dining room.

Upon entering the room, Percival and Rosamund were greeted in a slightly more subdued manner by their uncle, a very ordinary sort of man with grey hair and kind eyes, and two of their cousins, Louisa and Jane Clarkend.

"Rachel will be home from school for Christmas," Mrs Clarkend informed them as they all sat down to eat. "I dare say she will want to bring Maria with her. It really is such a good thing that they attend school together... just like Louisa and Rosamund."

Rosamund gave a forced smile. She had hated her cousin Louisa since they were thirteen years old, when it had become apparent that Louisa was the more handsome of the two.

"Indeed," said Mr Clarkend, "I hope that all of your family will join us for Christmas. I can't bear to think of your mother and father all alone in Bath for the holidays. Well, I suppose Terrence will be there. Terrence does come home for Christmas, does he not?"

Percival acknowledged that he did, but expressed uncertainty as to whether his parents could be persuaded to come to London at all, as his mother disliked it so much.

"Nonsense!" Mr Clarkend laughed. "How could anyone hate London? Anyway, what is there to do in Bath? Nothing. They really ought to come here for Christmas, don't you think, Mrs Clarkend?"

Mrs Clarkend agreed enthusiastically and declared that she would write to Mr and Mrs Dumbledore the next morning with the invitation. Supper did not last much longer after this, as Mrs Clarkend was positive that Percival and Rosamund were exhausted. After berating them for making the journey in one day, but acknowledging the many failings of coaching inns, she finally led them off to their bedrooms, just as the clock was striking eleven.

Sleep eluded Percival. He lay in bed, staring up at a band of light that the streetlamp outside cast across the ceiling. Every now and again he heard a carriage or a person go by the house. The clock struck twelve, and he heard the next-door neighbours coming home. He pulled his blankets up over his ears and closed his eyes, but his mind would not stop tossing and turning. He was contemplating in what way to go about finding wizards and witches – surely he could not go door to door asking for them, so what was he to do? The clock struck one.

His eyes, indeed, all of his limbs were heavy now. He could still feel the jolting of the carriage beneath him, but soon it turned into the gentle rocking of a boat. He was in the middle of Loch Ness, but it was really the River Avon in Bath.

"You really ought to just keep your eyes and ears open," the girl from the cottage was saying in her Scottish accent, except it wasn't really the girl from the cottage, it was him. "And then the newspaper will just float by."

And then the newspaper did float by. He tried to grab it, but the water was too swift. The River, or the Loch, or whatever it was was carrying him straight across Great Britain, and the girl was left far behind. He went through London, Bath, Edinburgh, and Newcastle (the order of which did not seem entirely right to him, even though he was awful with geography and this was, after all, a dream) at an alarming rate, and then he was out to sea, and heading toward America.

The coast was approaching. He could see a colossal woman standing there, and realised it was his aunt. "BREAKFAST!" her voice boomed, and then Percival awoke with a start.

The only thing that Percival remembered of the dream was the sensation of moving very fast, an unpleasant thought that he was moving very fast toward _America_, and someone with a Scottish accent advising him to keep his eyes and ears open. This seemed like sage advice, so he took it.

For two weeks, Percival kept his eyes and ears open, and he learnt a great many things. The man next-door was a drunk, and his daughter was marrying an Irishman whom everyone hated. As far as his own residence went, he found that Louisa was in love with a man called Mr Stephenson, and there was some attempt underway to make Mr Stephenson's brother fall in love with Jane, but it was not turning out as hoped for. Apparently he was promised to a girl who was, if Jane's description was anything to go by, the most disagreeable creature in the world. Percival could not even remember all of the things which he learnt by listening to the servants, and he was rather glad of it.

As fascinating as all of this new information was, it was not the sort of information Percival had been hoping to acquire. As the middle of the month went by, he would not allow himself to feel disappointed. He had come to London for answers, and he would be damned if he left without any.

He knew what the problem was – he hardly went out at all. What was a sixteen-year-old boy to do in London? By all rights he should be in school, or with a tutor, but he was not. He tried to study, but found himself constantly glancing out the window instead, wishing fervently that something unusual, something _magical_ would happen. But nothing ever did.

On the morning of the eighteenth of December, two days before Mr and Mrs Dumbledore (for they had agreed to come) and Terrence and Maria and their cousin Rachel were set to arrive, Jane Clarkend declared that she would very much like to go for a walk, if there was anyone willing to go with her.

No one else wanted to go for a walk at all. It was very cold, and looked like it might begin to snow at any moment. Louisa said that she might have liked to go, but she was feeling ill and thought she would take a nap instead. Percival, however, was very keen for a walk, so he and Jane set out from the house together.

They walked for some time, Jane chatting to Percival about all of the latest fashions, and Percival only half-listening. He scanned the sky for phoenixes, but mostly scanned the ground for discarded newspapers. He did this whenever he went outside, but today he actually saw something. Unfortunately, it was stuck to the bottom of a lady's shoe.

"Madam!" he cried, running after her. She stopped, turned, and gave him a quizzical look. "If you please," he said breathlessly, "I'm terribly sorry, but – " and he bent down and snatched the bit of newspaper off the bottom of her shoe. "It was – stuck," he finished stupidly.

The woman's companions giggled. She stared at him bemusedly, and then said, "Err... thank you very much, sir." And continued on her way.

Percival could not stop grinning. "I think we should go home now," he told Jane, who was looking at him strangely. "I really do think that it might snow at any moment, and I am positive that snow would do a great deal of harm to your hat."

Jane was convinced, and they set off back the way they had come. She was talking about fashions again. "What do you think of this newer style of sleeve?" she was saying.

"Hmm?" said Percival, regarding her for a moment before realising what she had asked. "Oh," he said. "Sleeves. Well, I think they're abominable, really. Far too puffy, if you ask me. What happened to those elegant, flowing sort of things you girls used to wear? It all looks awfully uncomfortable now."

Jane was quite annoyed by these comments, and did not say another word to him all the way back to the house, which suited Percival perfectly well. Once they were inside, he went straight up to his room, sat down at his little table, and admired his acquisition. It very small and smudged, and said:

_DIAGON ALLEY_

_FOR ALL YOUR MAGICAL NEEDS_

And that was it, but it was something, and something tangible at that. He finally had a real goal to move toward – finding this Diagon Alley, as it apparently housed all of his magical needs. He did not know exactly how he was to go about finding it – he supposed that he would simply have to ask people. Surely one of them would know.

That day, he managed to catch some servants, and ask them if they knew where Diagon Alley was, but none of them had ever heard of such a place. Not disheartened, the next day, he cornered a couple of Louisa's friends and asked them, but they hadn't any idea what he was talking about. His inquiries were interrupted on the twentieth when his parents and Terrence, and Maria and Rachel arrived at the house. There were many stories to be exchanged, of what had been happening in London, and what had been happening in Bath, and what had been happening at school, and Percival could hardly utter a word in between, let alone ask anyone if they had ever heard of a place called Diagon Alley.

On the twenty-first, Louisa and Mr Stephenson announced their engagement. Once again, the house was all in a flutter, and Percival was reduced to sitting sullenly by the fire and wondering how there could possibly be so much to talk about as to take all afternoon and evening, and well into the night.

And then there was the party. It was, according to Mrs Clarkend, to be an intimate social gathering of fifty or so people. They all came together in the Clarkends' drawing room on the night of the twenty-second. Percival had never been one for parties, and London parties were, in his opinion, the very worst. Everyone was there, including the girl from next-door, and she had brought along her new husband, the Irishman that her whole family hated.

Near to the end of the night, the Irishman's wife was engaged in conversation with her friends, and he, having been shunned by her family, came over to the fire to talk to Percival. "Hello," he said, resting his drink on the mantle, and glancing around the room with a casual air. "Lovely little party, isn't it?"

"Inspiring," Percival replied, failing to suppress a frown.

"It's your aunt's house, is that right?" the Irishman inquired, either not noticing or not caring about Percival's sarcastic remark.

"Yes," said Percival. "I am staying here over Christmas. Are you staying in London for Christmas as well?"

"No no," said the Irishman, with what Percival fancied was a relieved expression. "No, my wife and I are leaving the city tomorrow morning and going to stay with some of my sister's family in the country."

"Ah," said Percival.

The Irishman glanced across the room. "My wife seems to be signalling that it is time to depart," he remarked. "Have a happy Christmas."

He was about to walk away, when Percival suddenly burst out with, "I don't suppose you know where Diagon Alley is."

The Irishman gave him a surprised look. "Of course," he said, "you've never been? Wherever do you get your things for school?"

Percival was rendered speechless for a moment, and then was slowly filled with a feeling of triumph. "I don't go to school," he told him, and then, with a mounting sense of relief and a lowered voice, related the history of the letter, and his mother's concealing it, and his finally finding it, and seeing the discarded newspaper, and then the discarded _bit_ of a newspaper advertising Diagon Alley. He left out the part with the girl and her brother and their phoenix. He had, after all, sworn that he would not tell a soul about it.

After hearing all of this, the man seemed pitying, but not surprised. "It is a terrible thing, really..." he mused, and then took a bit of paper and pencil out of his pocket (Percival thought this very convenient, and decided that he ought to carry a pencil and paper around with him as well) and began writing on it. After a moment, he handed it to Percival. "Those are directions to Diagon Alley," he said. "But you won't have any proper money, will you?" he pondered. He dug around in his pocket, and then pressed a fistful of what Percival knew must be coins into his hand.

"Oh, sir," said Percival, shocked, "no, I could not – "

"Nonsense," the Irishman cut him off, "you may pay me back later. My wife is calling me – away I go! Do take care not to leave those directions where Muggles can see them!" And then he was lost in the crowd.

Percival went immediately to his room, as he never liked to experience extreme emotion in the midst of company. He sat on his bed and stared at the directions the Irishman had written out for him, and then stared at the little heap of strange gold coins which he had placed on his table. It was all too much to comprehend at first, and just as after the phoenix incident, he began to wonder if he had not dreamt it all. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the paper and the coins, glinting slightly in the lamplight, were still there. They were real.

The Irishman, of course, must have been a wizard. Percival was suddenly struck with the thought that he should have questioned him more, should have asked him what a 'Muggle' was, and where Hogwarts was located, but now it was too late. The same thing had happened in the summer at Godric's Hollow. It was all his fault, he supposed. He had always been clumsy when dealing with people, always thought of just the right thing to say or ask after they were gone.

No matter – he knew what he was going to do. He was going to go directly to Diagon Alley the next day, where he was sure all of his questions would finally be answered. He went to sleep, satisfied with the knowledge that he would soon be fulfilling all of his magical needs.


	4. Chapter III

**Author's Note: **Here's Chapter III, as promised. I like this chapter better than the last one. It's also a bit shorter. Chapter IV will be up either on Christmas day or Boxing Day, depending on how much fun I'm having with my presents.

I'd just like to say thanks again to everyone who's reading and reviewing. I can't tell you how glad I am that people seem to like it! I'm having so much fun writing this. In fact, I'm off to write some more now. Anyway, enjoy this chapter!

* * *

**Dumbledore**

**Chapter III – Diagon Alley**

**- **

Leaving the house the next morning proved more difficult than Percival had anticipated. He had imagined that he would simply mumble something about going for a walk to one of his family members, and then slip out unnoticed. Unfortunately, his family saw fit to detain him and question him about where he was going.

"To visit a friend!" he said irritably, for about the fourth time. "And as he was expecting me five minutes ago, may I go?"

"What friend is this?" his mother asked suspiciously. "How are you acquainted with him?"

"We met at Eton," Percival replied. At least he was good at making up stories.

"Nonsense," Terrence scoffed, "you never had any friends at Eton."

"None that you knew about," Percival shot back. "I'm late."

"Well, all right," his mother said finally. "But I think that you ought to take the carriage."

"I'd really rather walk."

"I won't hear of it," Mrs Dumbledore said firmly. "Take the carriage. It is far too cold to walk anywhere."

"Oh, Mama!" Maria piped up. "Rachel and I were going to take the carriage with Louisa and Rosamund to the Stephensons' house this morning. If Percival wants to walk, we really cannot spare the carriage for him."

"I think that Percival should walk," Mr Dumbledore said, looking up from his paper. "The boy does not walk enough. He needs exercise."

Percival would never understand why his father thought that he was at any risk of getting fat - if Percival was anything, he was tall and almost lanky – but he was not about to argue. "I do," he said, "I do feel in great need of some exercise."

"Oh, very well!" Mrs Dumbledore said crossly. "Go on, then, but do take care to be back by tea time."

Percival wasted no time leaving the house after this. He stepped out into the frigid London air, and strode quickly off down the street. As soon as he had rounded the corner, he took out the Irishman's directions and looked them over once again. Luckily for him, the location of Diagon Alley was not far from his aunt and uncle's house. He took care to follow the directions exactly as they were written, and soon came to a dingy little pub called the Leaky Cauldron. Percival walked right by it at first. Indeed, no one seemed to notice it was there at all. One man almost collided with him as he stood staring at it, which prompted him to finally step inside out of the cold.

The inside of the Leaky Cauldron was only slightly less dingy than the outside. A few people, most of whom were dressed very oddly, sat scattered around at small tables, drinking and talking. There was a barman wiping the counter with a rag. When he noticed Percival standing awkwardly just inside the door, he stopped wiping and said, "Can I help you?"

"Err," said Percival. "I need to get into Diagon Alley." The Irishman's instructions had merely said to ask someone in the pub for help. The barman looked a bit disgruntled at this, and Percival said, "Sorry, I just – "

"Ne'er mind," the barman said shortly. "I know yor type, all right, in yor fancy Muggle clothes, prob'ly ne'er been t' Hogwarts, ne'er set foot in Diagon Alley, taught at home wif a tutor, aye?"

Percival blinked. "No, I – "

"MacDonald!" The barman shouted, not regarding him. A harassed young man wearing an apron appeared from a room in the back. "This, err, this..."

"Percival Dumbledore," said Percival helpfully.

"This Mr Dumbledore needs help gettin' in ter Diagon Alley."

MacDonald sighed angrily and narrowed his eyes first at Percival, then at the barman. "I was eating my _dinner_," he said huffily. "How'd you like it if someone was always – "

"You can eat yor dinner after you do yor work!" the barman roared. He had gone quite red. MacDonald had evidently decided that it was not worth it to argue, because he was walking toward the back of the room, and Percival assumed that he was meant to follow.

MacDonald led him out into a tiny courtyard filled with snow. He took a small, polished wooden rod from his coat pocket, and then turned to Percival with an irritated expression. "Remember this, will you? Saves people like me the trouble." He tapped the brick wall in front of them with wooden rod. "Three up, two across. Remember that." And then a hole appeared in the wall.

Percival watched, transfixed, as the hole grew larger and larger, until an entire archway had appeared, leading into a winding alley that was bustling with people. Percival turned to thank MacDonald for his assistance, but he had already vanished back inside the pub. Percival hoped that all wizards weren't as unpleasant as MacDonald and the barman. And then, heart beating wildly in his chest, he stepped into Diagon Alley.

There were people in strange attire all around him. Close by, there were shops selling cauldrons, dragon livers, and magical brooms. He felt a surge of excitement pass through him. Here was final, indisputable proof that the world he belonged to existed. If he had been a girl, he thought he might have cried. Hands shaking, he reached into his pocket, and took out the letter from Hogwarts. Attached was a list of all of the supplies that he would have needed for school. But what was he to buy now? Obviously not a school uniform. There was a list of books, which seemed to Percival a very good place to start, but where on earth would he put them all, and how would he conceal them from his family? Aside from that, he did not even know what brass scales and crystal phials were used for. But there was one thing on the list that struck him as a both important and feasible, and that was a wand.

Percival walked through the alley, half worried that someone would notice that he was out of place there, that he had no idea where he was going or quite what he was looking for, but no one paid him any heed at all. He passed a multitude of little shops and several grand, extravagant looking stores, and then a towering white building called Gringotts. On the other side of Gringotts, Percival finally found what he was looking for. It was a little shop with gold letters over the door that read 'Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC'.

Wondering where he had heard the name 'Ollivander' before (he had a terrible memory for names), Percival entered the shop. It was cramped, and full of shelves which were lined from floor to ceiling with narrow, dusty boxes. He sneezed, and felt his hair stand on end. His skin prickled, and he did not know why.

"Customer!" a distinctly Scottish voice yelled from somewhere on the floor above. There were the sounds of someone coming down a staircase, and then a young man appeared from the back of the shop. He stopped abruptly and stared at Percival, for they had seen one another before. It was the boy from the cottage, Alistair – Alistair Ollivander. Of course.

"You," Alistair said uncertainly, eyeing Percival as if he might do something unpredictable. "I thought you were a..."

Percival opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by someone else clambering down the stairs and coming out into the front of the shop. It was Alistair's little sister, Catherine. She gasped when she saw Percival, and then rounded on her brother, gleefully saying, "I _knew_ it! I _knew_ he wasn't a Muggle!"

"You're not a Muggle," Alistair said, dumbstruck.

"No, I'm not," Percival replied, and sneezed again. "Sorry. At least, I don't think I am. I don't know precisely what a Muggle is. Someone who isn't a wizard or a witch, I'd assume, from what I've gathered."

"You've gathered right," said Alistair, sticking his hands in his pockets and rocking slighting on the balls of his feet. "But when we saw you at Godric's Hollow, you – I don't – why did you - ?"

For the second time is as many days, Percival prepared to explain his circumstances, but as it turned out, he was saved from the trouble by Catherine, who said, "Oh, Alistair! Don't you see? He's one of those poor Muggleborns whose parents never got the letter or never believed it! You are, aren't you?" She said, fixing Percival with a sorry look.

"Err," he said. "Yes, I suppose I am. My mother got a letter from Hogwarts the summer I was eleven, but she hid it from me, and I never found it till August of this year – after I met you at Godric's Hollow, as it were."

"So how on earth did you find out?" Alistair asked. "How'd you find Diagon Alley, I mean?"

"Oh," said Percival, "my aunt had a party last night, and an Irishman was there – I never thought to ask his name, but I did ask him if he knew where I might find Diagon Alley, and it turned out that he did, and he wrote out the directions on a bit of paper. He gave me money, too. I tried to decline, but, well..." Percival reached into his pocket and pulled out the little pile of gold coins.

"That's got to be twenty galleons!" Catherine exclaimed, looking shocked. "Are you sure it isn't leprechaun gold?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Alistair scoffed. "If it were leprechaun gold, it would have disappeared by now. No, it's real – this Irishman must be incredibly rich, or incredibly out of his mind."

Percival laughed a bit at this. "Well, maybe both," he said. "He told me I could pay him back later, but he never gave me his name, or where he lived, or anything. I suppose I could find out, though – his wife's family lives next-door. So is twenty galleons enough to buy a wand, then?"

Alistair and Catherine both laughed. "You could buy twenty wands if you wanted to," Alistair remarked. "Wait here, I'll go get Grandpa..." Alistair headed off back into the back of the shop, and could be heard going up the stairs.

"So," said Percival, turning awkwardly to Catherine. "Err... so, do your parents own this shop?"

"Oh, no," said Catherine, picking idly at the hem of her sleeve, "my parents are dead."

Percival choked. "I – sorry," he mumbled stupidly. He was spared any further embarrassment by Alistair coming back into the shop with an old man whom Percival assumed must be their grandfather.

The old man seemed pleasant enough, if a bit preoccupied. His clothing (robes, which seemed to be what most people in Diagon Alley wore) was slightly dishevelled, and his hair was a bit out of place, but at least he was friendly. "Hello there!" he greeted Percival. "How's the snow?"

"Snow?" Percival blinked. "Oh, yes, well, not more than an inch, at least when I was out in it."

"Good, good," the old man rubbed his hands together. "There's nothing I hate more than snow. Well! Ollivander, at your service, young man! I hear you need to purchase a wand."

"I do, sir."

"Well you've come to the right place. Which is your wand arm?"

"Um," said Percival.

"Sorry, sorry, always forget," Ollivander apologised, taking out a measuring tape. "Which is the arm you write with?"

"My right," Percival replied, and then jumped a bit, for the tape had sprung to life and was taking his measurements by itself.

"Wonderful, wonderful," Ollivander said, and the tape measure crumpled to the floor. "Alistair, hand me one, will you?" Prompting Percival to wonder what exactly the purpose if his being measured was.

Alistair reached up onto one of the shelves and took down a narrow box that was identical to all the other narrow boxes in the room. Ollivander opened it, and handed the wand inside to Percival, who took it and looked at it dumbly. "That's eleven inches, phoenix feather – just give it a good flick."

Percival gave it a good flick, but nothing happened. Alistair took the wand from him, put it back in its box, and then handed him another. He flicked, and again nothing happened. He went through wand after wand, all of varying lengths, cores, and flexibilities, and still came up with nothing.

"Not to worry, not to worry!" Ollivander sang, taking another box from Alistair. "Cathy went through fifty seven different wands before she found the proper one this summer."

"That's right," said Catherine proudly, as Percival continued to flick, hoping earnestly that he would not have to go through fifty seven wands as well. "Hawthorn, eight inches, unicorn hair – nice and swishy."

"Here we go, try this one," Ollivander placed yet another wand into Percival's hand. "Vine wood, ten and a half inches, dragon heartstring, fairly supple."

Percival had a horrible feeling that they would never find a proper wand for him, that perhaps there _was_ no proper wand for him, and that there had been some terrible mistake, that he was not a wizard at all. But when he took the wand, he felt his fingers tingle, and felt warmth creep up his arm. With a fluttery feeling in his stomach, he flicked the wand, and this time bright sparks shot out of it.

Catherine cheered, and Ollivander clapped his hands together. Alistair gave an approving sort of nod before starting to put all the boxes away again. "Very good, very good!" Ollivander exclaimed, taking the wand from Percival and placing it back in its box. He went to the counter and began to wrap it. As Percival paid him, he said, "I hope you will stay for tea. My grandson told me you never knew you were a wizard till this summer, and I would very much like to hear your story."

Percival was quite taken aback by this show of hospitality. Taking the wrapped-up wand and placing it in his inside coat pocket, he said, "Thank you very much, sir, but I'm afraid I can't – I told my mother I would be back in time for tea."

"Ah," said Ollivander. "Well do come tomorrow, then, if you can. I know it is Christmas Eve, but if your mother wouldn't mind..."

"I will certainly come tomorrow," Percival said happily. "That is, if I can convince my mother and my aunt to let me out of the house. I can't promise anything, but I – I should very much like to come. I will certainly try to come."

"Well, excellent," Ollivander said, clapping his hands together again. "Excellent, then. Hopefully we will see you back tomorrow."

"Thank you," Percival replied as he left the shop and stepped back out into the chilly air. He had not gone three feet when someone ran up beside him – it was Catherine. "Oh, hello," he said, glancing down at her curiously.

"Catherine!" Alistair shouted from the window of the shop. "Grandpa says you're to be back in five minutes for tea!"

"All right!" Catherine yelled back.

"And you're on no account to go into the Leaky Cauldron!"

"All _right_!" She yelled, and then rolled her eyes, turning back to Percival. They continued walking. "They think I can't do anything," she remarked.

"So, err," said Percival. "You go to this Hogwarts school, right?"

"That's right," said Catherine. "I just started in September. This is my first year. I was terribly nervous before I went, but I got put in the same house as my brother, though I suppose that's really no surprise."

"Oh, yes," Percival agreed, though he wasn't quite sure what she was talking about. "Now this school, this Hogwarts, it's for girls as well as boys?"

Catherine nodded. "It's for any witch or wizard aged eleven to eighteen. Well, unless you're a squib, I suppose."

"And what is a squib?" Percival inquired.

"A squib is – err – a squib is like a witch or a wizard, but – not," Cathy replied. "Oh, I can't explain it!" She frowned as they stopped at the entrance of the Alley. "I'm horrible at explaining things. Come back tomorrow and my brother and Grandpa will explain everything to you. And now I have to go or I'll be late for tea – I'm glad you're not a Muggle! I knew it!" And she turned and walked back toward Ollivanders. Percival watched the auburn top of her head bobbing along in between the shoppers until she was lost in the crowd.


	5. Chapter IV

**Author's Note: **How was everyone's Christmas? Mine was great! And if you celebrate something other than Christmas, I hope you had a good Whatever-You-Celebrate. I'm personally quite keen on Festivus. Oh, and Happy Boxing Day, as it's the 26th.

One again, if you have any comments/questions/etc., review! Or you can e-mail me or contact me through my livejournal. All of my stuff in in my profile.

* * *

**Dumbledore (Part I – The Phoenix)**

**Chapter IV – Tea With the Ollivanders**

**-**

This time, escaping the house the next day proved easier than Percival had anticipated. This was, of course, owing to the fact that it was Christmas Eve, and everyone was busy doing all manner of Christmas Eve things. Percival, confidence heightened by the previous day's successful foray into Diagon Alley, took his mother aside and explained that he was going to visit his friend from Eton again.

"On Christmas Eve?" she asked uncertainly. "You had all December to visit him, why must you go two days in a row?"

"I didn't have all December," Percival replied. "He's only here for Christmas, then he's going back to Scotland."

"Scotland!" his mother exclaimed.

"Yes," said Percival. "And I promised that I would come back and visit today. He only has his little sister and his old grandfather for company, it's terribly sad..."

"And what of his parents?" His mother wondered.

"Dead," Percival said, edging his voice with sadness. "Tragic, really."

"How did they die?"

"Mother!" he exclaimed. "I've hardly asked!"

By the end of this exchange, Mrs Dumbledore was confused enough to let her son go. Percival left the house humming a little tune, and followed the route from the day before to Diagon Alley. This time when he entered the Leaky Cauldron, he walked straight past the grumpy barman and out into the courtyard by himself.

There was the brick wall. He took his new wand out of his pocket, and took a deep breath. "Three up... two across..." he murmured to himself, tapping the appropriate brick with his wand and praying that it would work. The bricks began sliding and knocking together, opening up to form the archway into Diagon Alley. Percival exhaled, grinned, and stuck his wand back in his pocket.

I was snowing as he made his way toward Ollivanders. All of the shops were decorated for the holiday. Outside a shop selling robes, a huge Christmas tree was singing carols at passers-by. For some reason Percival thought of Mr Harley, his old tutor, and what his reaction would be if he were faced with a singing Christmas tree. He laughed.

When he stepped into Ollivanders, he sneezed, and his skin prickled, just as the day before. "Customer!" Alistair shouted from above, and then descended the stairs. He came around a shelf and said, "Oh, it's you. You managed to get away from your mother did you?"

"Yes," said Percival, brushing snow off the top of his head.

"Well, come on upstairs. My sister and Grandpa will be happy to see you. They haven't stopped talking about you."

Percival was quite taken aback, but followed Alistair into the back of the shop, up a rickety old staircase, and then into a large, grand apartment. The first thing he noticed was the phoenix, asleep on a perch near the window. He instantly relaxed. For some reason, the very presence of the bird was comforting.

When he looked around, he saw that they were in some kind of parlour, with rich, polished furniture, ornate rugs and wall hangings, and fine oak panelling. There were several doors which Percival assumed must lead to other rooms in the apartment. He could not comprehend it – the parlour itself looked bigger than the entire shop downstairs. "How..." he started.

"Magic," Alistair explained. "Grandpa!" he called. "Cathy, we have a guest!"

Percival was suddenly struck with just how much about magic he did not know. He felt very stupid and backward as Ollivander and Catherine entered the room. They greeted him cheerfully, and he smiled in return, but felt a bit empty. He had studied things all his life, but he had never studied _this_.

Catherine was balancing a large tray of tea and biscuits. She set it down on a little table, and everyone took a seat on a sofa or a chair. "I wish you'd let me use magic," Catherine said to her grandfather, taking a biscuit. "That tray is heavy, you know."

"No magic outside of school. I could be charged for that," Ollivander said firmly. Then he fixed his eyes on Percival. "You haven't done anything with that wand, have you?"

"Oh, no, nothing," Percival assured him. "Nothing at all, well, except using it to get into Diagon Alley."

"Ahh, well, good, good," Ollivander smiled. "You see, you're not allowed to do any magic out of school till you come of age. Ministry rules."

"Till I come of age?" Percival cried. "What, I can't do any magic at all till I'm twenty one?"

"Twenty one?" Ollivander replied, breaking his biscuit in half. "Merlin, no! Wizards come of age at seventeen. You can't be much younger than seventeen anyway. Are you?"

"I am sixteen," Percival answered, feeling a bit relieved. "But how am I to learn magic? I want to, of course. I can't just... find out about all of this and then go back to living like a, a... what do you call it?"

"Muggle," Catherine offered.

"That's right," Percival finished, "like a Muggle. I want to learn magic."

"Find yourself a good tutor," Alistair suggested. "Lots of wizards and witches never go to Hogwarts, they get taught privately by a tutor instead."

Percival was not so sure about this idea. The barman at the Leaky Cauldron had thought he was taught by a tutor, and seemed to have no great opinion of it. However, Percival reasoned, the barman at the Leaky Cauldron was probably not someone whose opinion was worth much. But then he remembered Mr Harley, and frowned. "I don't know," he said. "How would I go about finding a tutor? And how would I hide it from my parents?"

"They're bound to find out eventually," Alistair pointed out. "Your mother already knows, if she was the one hiding the letter from you. Unless, of course, she still doesn't believe it."

"Hmmm," said Percival thoughtfully, mulling it over in his head as he chewed on his biscuit. "Perhaps I could just teach myself."

Ollivander looked at him doubtfully. "I wouldn't recommend it," he said. "Not without a good, solid base of proper education first. No, no... it could be disastrous."

"There is so much I don't know," Percival admitted, feeling rather dejected. "I don't know the first thing about... anything! I don't even know what wands are used for."

"Casting spells," Catherine said simply, selecting another biscuit.

"And if you've got an itch behind your ear," Alistair added, "They're perfect – "

"Never do that!" Ollivander exclaimed, looking horrified. "You haven't been using your wand to scratch behind your ear, have you, boy?"

"Err," said Alistair, looking sheepish.

"When I was in fifth year," Ollivander continued, a warning tone in his voice, "a boy in Hufflepuff blew his ear right off by doing that."

Alistair snorted. "Figures. Hufflepuff."

"It's no laughing matter," his grandfather said sternly. "He was in the hospital wing for a week, and he could never hear properly again."

"What is Hufflepuff?" asked Percival. He was trying to remember to question them about anything they said that was unfamiliar.

Alistair opened his mouth to reply, but Catherine cut him off. "Oh, please let me explain!" she begged. "You two know more than I do, you can explain everything else to him, at least let me explain this!"

"Well if it's that important to you," Alistair shrugged, blowing some steam off the top of his tea cup.

Catherine drew herself up a little. "Hufflepuff is a house at Hogwarts," she began. "There are four houses – Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and Gryffindor – and all Hogwarts students are sorted into one of them when they first enter school."

"And what's the difference between them?" Percival inquired. "Is there any?"

"Oh, yes," said Catherine enthusiastically. "A great deal of difference. They are all named after the four founders of the school, and the students in each of the houses all have certain characteristics that each of the founders thought highly of, like... well... Hufflepuffs, they're loyal and hardworking, Gryffindors are brave, Ravenclaws are clever, and Slytherins are ambitious."

"And evil," Percival put in.

"Not _evil_," his grandfather countered firmly, but his tone was kind. Alistair merely shrugged and stared into his teacup. Percival got the distinct impression that this was, for some reason, an argument they had had many times before.

"What house are you in?" Percival asked.

"Gryffindor," Catherine replied, but she was frowning slightly now. "Both of us."

By the time their tea was either finished or cold, Percival knew a great deal more about the wizarding world, but still felt rather lost. He did not know how he would ever learn everything he needed to know. He had a depressing feeling that he would never truly be a part of this world.

It was decided amongst Ollivander and his grandchildren that reading books on the subject would be a good place for Percival to start. Percival was more than happy to place his trust in books, his old companions, and so he headed out into Diagon Alley with Alistair and Catherine to make some purchases.

They hadn't much time as it was Christmas Eve and all the shops were either not open at all, or closing early, but they did manage to find a few books. Percival for the most part had no idea what to look for, and bought whatever Alistair and Catherine told him to.

After the shopkeeper had finally turned them out because he had to close, Percival said goodbye to Catherine and Alistair, promising to visit them again before the holidays were over, and then began the trek back to his aunt's house as the sky was darkening. Snow was swirling thickly in the air now, and the books were heavy, but Percival was more concerned with how he was going to conceal them from his family once he was inside.

Luckily for him, everyone in the house was busier than ever, and he managed to get the books up to his room completely unnoticed. He sat on his bed for a while, contemplating everything, until the snow that had fallen on his hair started melting around his ears and the streetlamp was lit outside. He tucked the books carefully away in his desk, covering them with an encyclopaedia, a copy of _The Tempest_, and a Bible. Then he went downstairs.

Christmas Eve supper was a noisy affair. The table consisted of Mr and Mrs Dumbledore, Rosamund, Terrence, Percival, Maria, Mr and Mrs Clarkend, Louisa, Mr Stephenson and his brother (who was called Edgar), Jane, and Rachel – thirteen people altogether.

"That's unlucky," Percival remarked.

"Oh Percival, don't be such a bore!" Maria exclaimed. "Percival is full of silly superstitions," she informed Edgar Stephenson, who she was seated next to. "It's from reading so many books."

"I beg your pardon," Percival replied, rather affronted. "As you've never picked up a book, Maria, I would not think you qualified to judge what they do to people."

"Well," she said in a huff, "I know what they've done to _you_ – "

"Maria!" Mrs Dumbledore said sharply, and the girl fell silent. Percival was not sure whether his mother had silenced her because of her impoliteness in front of company, or because she equated being superstitious with being a wizard. In any case, he was glad that Maria had stopped talking to him.

Percival did not enjoy his evening. Everything seemed lopsided. Rosamund and Louisa, who used to always be at odds, were getting along marvellously now that Louisa was engaged. As for the rest of the young ladies at the table, it was clear that they were all competing for the attentions of Edgar Stephenson, who, unlike his brother, was still quite single. As Maria and Rachel were too young to consider marriage, Rosamund and Jane were the two who were engaging him most in conversation, or relating a little joke, or asking him some question about his family or his work. He did seem particularly taken with Rosamund, though, to the delight of Mrs Dumbledore.

Percival liked Edgar Stephenson well enough, and was sure that he was a very good sort of man, but by the end of the night he never wanted to hear him spoken of again. More than once, he glanced up at the ceiling, picturing his new books waiting upstairs, concealed beneath Shakespeare and the New Testament.

After what seemed like an age, the Stephenson brothers finally left, and the rest of the family went to bed. Percival quietly took his new books from the desk drawer and admired them in what feeble light the candle on his bedside table cast. Which would he open first? Choosing a book was like choosing a pudding; they all looked delicious.

In the end, he chose what seemed like the most promising volume to start with: a book called 'A Muggleborn's Guide to Magic' by Matthew Reid. He remembered this book from Diagon Alley – the shopkeeper had informed them that it was the last one they had in stock. Someone had been buying them up. This seemed rather odd to Percival, as he had got the impression that Muggleborns actually finding out about their magical ability were something of a rarity at present. Still, he supposed that it was more than likely he was mistaken.

Percival stayed awake all night reading. By the time the sun was rising, he was well acquainted with the basics of the wizarding world. He had never enjoyed a book so much, and he kept going over parts he had already read. There was very little Percival liked more than being well-informed.

The result of this overnight literary romp through the wizarding world was that Percival was exhausted for the rest of the day. He fell asleep on the sofa in the drawing room after dinner and only woke up when people started arriving for supper.

He was so well rested from sleeping all day that he could not sleep at all that night. He lay awake, reading more from 'A Muggleborn's Guide to Magic'. Some time after two o'clock in the morning, he heard a crash from the corridor and the sound of something breaking. He went out to investigate, and found Terrence, standing in the midst of a broken flower pot, swearing and laughing.

"Shut up!" Percival hissed at him. "You'll wake everyone up. Are you drunk?"

"'Course not," Terrence replied, swaying a little. "Go back to sleep, you're boring."

"Oh, that's logical," Percival said sarcastically. "Why don't _you_ go back to sleep? What are you doing crashing around the house at this hour, breaking flower pots and saying inane things?"

Terrence merely waved his hand in an exaggerated motion, and stumbled off down the corridor. Percival followed him. They came to Terrence's room, and when he opened the door, Percival heard someone distinctly female greet him.

"Have you got a _girl_ in there?" he stared at his brother.

"Two!" Terrence grinned, and then swayed against the doorframe. "Whoooops." Then, turning to Percival, he said, "Want one?"

"What?" said Percival, feeling his face go quite hot. "No, good God, no, I don't want a girl! What do you think you're doing, getting drunk and bringing prostitutes or whatever they are into our aunt and uncle's house?"

"I'm not drunk," Terrence shot back, straining his eyes to focus on Percival. He frowned at him. "I'm just trying to be nice, you know."

"You're disgusting," Percival said firmly. Terrence laughed, which only served to provoke him. "I don't care what you do at university, but when you're here, with your _family_, at _Christmas_ – "

"Who are you, my mother?" Terrence returned. "Just shut up, shut up. If you don't want any – anyone – if you don't – just go back to bed!" he finished angrily. Then he went inside his room and slammed his door shut.

Percival, praying that no one else had woken up, but half wishing that someone would discover the girl (or two, if Terrence was to be believed, which he probably was not) in his room, went back to his own room and got into bed, but could not sleep. He was too angry to sleep, and too angry to read. He hated his family, all of them. He hated Terrence with his alcohol and his women, he hated Rosamund and Jane and their obsession with finding husbands, he hated Maria and Rachel with their gossip and their stupidity. He hated his father, and his aunt, and his uncle – they were all dim-witted. But most of all, he hated his mother, for if it had not been for her, he would be where he was meant to be, and not an outcast, someone wavering uncertainly between two worlds, neither of which he fit into properly.

The next day, Boxing Day, seemed to go by in a lull. Percival was still furious, but the sluggish atmosphere of the house dulled his anger and left him feeling simply depressed.

It was not until the twenty seventh that everything took a turn for the absurd.


	6. Chapter V

**Author's Note: **Hello again! Now, apparently it's against the rules to answer reviews in an author's note, so I won't. I will, however, provide some answers to questions which simply _popped into my mind_, that I thought some of you _might_ be wondering about. I could be completely wrong, of course, since I just _randomly thought up these questions_, but hey!

Clarification is a wonderful thing, and makes reading a story much better than when you have no idea what's going on. First of all, yes, Part I, which is this fan fiction, is about Albus Dumbledore's father. Percival is Albus Dumbledore's father. That's not a secret, so I'm just going to say it. Obviously Albus Dumbledore isn't born yet, as Percival is only sixteen at the moment. :P

Secondly, the chapter you're about to read takes place in 1825. Since it's late in the year, the next chapter will take place in 1826. I honestly didn't mean to have my updates coincide with the time of the year that the chapters take place in, it just worked out like that, interestingly enough.

If you go to my livejournal, you'll find a (partial) Dumbledore/Clarkend family tree. I'm posting it because I know that all the various relations can be terribly confusing, especially as there are a lot of girl cousins currently about. Check out the family tree if you're confused about who's who.

If you're ever confused about anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask. The question might magically pop into my head all on its own and the answer may very well wind up here. Of course, if you really want to know something, you can always just comment in my livejournal, and I can answer you in a more direct and speedy manner. But I'm not giving out any spoilers!

Enough with the author's note! This is the last update of 2005, so I'll see you all in the new year!

* * *

**Dumbledore (Part I – The Phoenix)**

**Chapter V – The Scheme**

**- **

A little after four thirty in the morning on December the twenty-seventh, a young lady attempted to leave the Clarkends' house in London by a back door. A servant, who recognised her as Louisa Clarkend, detained her. It was apparent that Miss Clarkend was in a great deal of pain, but it took three servants to subdue her and lead her back upstairs. She kept insisting that she needed to leave the house on an urgent errand, and became very distraught when she realised that she had been thwarted.

The physician was summoned immediately. At five o'clock he took Louisa's parents aside and spoke with them privately. By half past five everyone in the house who was awake knew that Louisa was with child, and was giving birth.

At a quarter to six in the morning, Mr Dumbledore awoke, and went out into the corridor, where he was met by a very dishevelled young lady coming out of Terrence's bedroom. Both stared at each other, shocked, until Terrence emerged as well. He looked at his father and the girl, and his face went pale. Mr Dumbledore took both of them by their wrists and led them into a nearby sitting room for questioning, none of the three having any idea of what was occurring in the rest of the house.

At six o'clock, Percival awoke with a foreboding lump in his throat. He could always instinctively tell when something bad was happening. The still, icy air hinted at disaster, and all the little creaks and rustlings and muffled footsteps in the cold morning whispered of misfortune.

He lay in bed for several minutes, trying to ward off the sense of dread that seemed to hang in the air all around him. When he heard someone scream he decided that he had better not put it off any longer, got out of bed, got dressed, splashed his face with cold water, and went out into the corridor.

The broken flower pot was still on the floor, and he wondered why no one had cleaned it up yet. He could hear raised voices coming from the sitting room. He went inside, and found his father, who looked livid, Terrence, who looked defiant, and a very upset young lady.

"Good morning," said Percival.

"Leave, Percival," his father glared at him. Percival did not think this very sporting; after all, Terrence was the one in trouble, not he.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"None of your business," Terrence grumbled.

"Oh," said Percival. "But last night it was my business, was it?"

"What do you mean 'what's going on'?" Mr Dumbledore replied. "What's going on is that I'm trying to get a straight answer out of this young lady as to what she was doing coming out of my son's bedroom this morning."

"Well," said Percival helpfully, "I should think that would be rather obvious."

"Percival!" his father shouted. "Out!"

The girl was crying. "Look, you're only upsetting her," Percival told him. "What's the difference? You caught her coming out of Terrence's bedroom, not going into it. There isn't much you can do about it now."

"When I want sarcastic remarks from you, boy, I'll – "

"I only came in here because I heard somebody scream," Percival said at the same time.

His father stopped abruptly, looking puzzled. "Scream? What on earth do you mean?"

"I mean I heard someone scream," Percival answered, becoming annoyed. "I suppose as it was nobody in this room, I'll just go."

No sooner had he said this than Maria burst into the room, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Oh, Lord!" she cried, staring wildly at all of them. "Oh, Lord, I cannot believe this! You will never believe this!"

"Good God," said Mr Dumbledore, rising from his chair. "Maria, what is the matter?"

"Mama wants you in the drawing room," Maria replied between sobs. "You are wanted immediately. Louisa is – she is – "

"Well? What is she?" Mr Dumbledore demanded, face quite red. "Out with it, girl!"

"She's having a baby!" Maria wailed, and then turned and fled the room.

Mr Dumbledore's mouth opened and closed silently. He looked from Terrence, to the girl, to Percival, and then strode out of the room after Maria. Percival, without a second glance at his brother and his young lady friend, went after his father. His cousin could not possibly be having a baby. She was not with child – was she?

He followed his father into the drawing room, where his mother, Maria, Rachel, Jane, and several of the female servants were standing or sitting about in a state of wretchedness.

"Is it true?" Mr Dumbledore asked them, staring around in disbelief. "Is it true, then, that Louisa is... err... confined?"

Mrs Dumbledore looked up from dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief and nodded. "It is true," she said. "Her mother and the physician are with her. Her father is distraught – he left the house half an hour ago, and we don't know where he's gone – we've sent a servant out to find him and bring him back."

"Where is Rosamund?" Percival asked suddenly. Surely she could not still be asleep, after the scream (Percival still did not know who had screamed or why), and the argument in the sitting room, and Maria's wailing.

"Still asleep, I think," Mrs Dumbledore replied. "Jenny," she addressed one of the servants present, "will you go wake up Miss Dumbledore, please? Tell her we are all down here in the drawing room."

Jane Clarkend stood up as well. "I am going to see my sister," she declared. No one felt like arguing with her.

Jane and Jenny left and everyone sat around in silence for a while. Percival stared at various points around the room – the ceiling, the carpet, a chair, a mirror – not wanting to make eye contact with anyone. Finally, Mr Dumbledore took out his pocket watch and informed them all that it was nearly seven o'clock.

Five or ten minutes later, Jane entered the room again and sat down in a chair by the fire, looking dispirited.

"How is she?" Rachel inquired.

"She is doing as well as can be expected, I believe," was Jane's reply.

"I cannot believe how _stupid_ she is!" Rachel exclaimed. "Stupid, stupid girl! She was engaged! What, did she think that Mr Stephenson would not notice?"

Jane looked up at her and then gave a strange laugh. "According to Louisa," she said, "Mr Stephenson knew."

A couple of people gasped; everyone else was mostly too dumbfounded to speak.

"It is his child then," Mrs Dumbledore said weakly. "Wicked man!"

"He did mean to marry her, though," Percival pointed out, but no one was listening to him. They were all enthusiastically discussing the wickedness of Mr Stephenson, and wondering how he had tricked Louisa into such a thing. Percival listened bemusedly for a while; it was as if one idea would bounce off one lady, and then bounce off another, and every time it bounced it inflated, so that soon Mr Stephenson was being likened to Napoleon Bonaparte.

Percival was about to ask what time it was, when Jenny came back into the room. She was very pale, was trembling, and was holding a folded piece of paper in her hands. Without a word, she handed it to Mrs Dumbledore, and then stood back, looking petrified.

Poor Mrs Dumbledore had learnt to equate letters with bad news, and opened it with some trepidation. Everyone's eyes were on her as she read it. At first, she did not seem to display much emotion at all, but when she finished reading and began to stand, it was clear that she was shaking.

"Let me help you, madam," one of the servants said, and moved just in time to catch Mrs Dumbledore, who had fainted. There was a great commotion as everyone rushed to be of some assistance. Mrs Dumbledore was not out for long, but when she regained consciousness she was too distraught to speak, and lay on the sofa with her hands covering her face.

Rachel had got hold of the letter, and began to read it aloud for the benefit of everyone in the room. "Dear Mama," she read. "I know that this will come as something of a shock to you, but really, why should it? Any fool could see that Mr Stephenson liked me above all the other girls in the house."

"Mr Stephenson!" several people exclaimed.

"And now," Rachel continued reading, "that I am confident he is in love with me, we saw no reason to wait any longer. Mr Stephenson's parents are very much against his marrying me and, as you may well know, wish him to marry a very vulgar girl who I am determined not to speak of. We have gone immediately to Gretna Green, and Mr Stephenson has some desire to stay in Scotland afterward, but I hope that we will be invited back to visit you all soon! I am terribly sorry for any distress I may have caused you, but know that I am quite safe, and will be sending a lengthy letter soon, signed as Mrs Stephenson!"

There was silence for a moment, and then, "Was that written by Rosamund?" Maria cried.

"Yes," Rachel said simply.

Everyone was shocked, and angered. This served to prove that Mr Stephenson was, indeed, the very worst of men. To have put Louisa Clarkend in her present condition, promising to marry her, and then to run off to Scotland with Rosamund! It was not to be borne. And for Rosamund to speak of her cousin in such terms – it was simply beyond belief.

The hours passed in a maddening slowness. Percival wanted to leave, but thought that he had better stay should anything else happen. He felt betrayed, though no one had actually done anything to him. He had often felt alienated from his family, but never so much as this morning, sitting in the cold drawing room as his mother and sisters cried, and his father and the servants stood about uselessly. He glanced at Maria several times, half expecting something vile to be revealed about her as well.

Nobody had eaten breakfast, but nobody was hungry. Percival found his thoughts wandering to Diagon Alley, and the Ollivanders. He rather wished he were there right now. He pictured himself walking through the dusty shop and feeling his skin prickle from all the magic, and then sitting in their drawing room and drinking tea. They would gossip and chat about wizarding things, and Percival would do this naturally, because he had been a wizard all his life, and had never known any differently. And all the while the phoenix would be there, ever present, keeping watch near the window...

Percival must have actually dozed off, because he awoke with a start, sitting up in his chair, as footsteps hurried toward the drawing room. His aunt appeared at the doorway, looking very dishevelled, and generally how a woman who has just found out that her young unmarried daughter is with child and giving birth in the space of a morning would appear.

"The baby is born," she announced. No one knew what to say. There would obviously be no congratulations. "It is a boy," Mrs Clarkend said, breaking the silence. "I – I think we would do well to summon Mr Stephenson."

Everyone looked at each other. Nobody quite knew how to tell Mrs Clarkend that Mr Stephenson was currently on his way to Gretna Green with her niece. They were all spared the trouble, however, because at that moment two men came into the drawing room – one was Mr Clarkend, and one was Mr Stephenson.

"Where is my daughter?" Mrs Dumbledore cried, standing quickly and pointing a shaking finger at Mr Stephenson.

Mr Stephenson stared at her in surprise. "Your daughter? Madam, forgive me, I do not understand..."

This was unexpected. Was he telling the truth? He seemed more confused than they were. But then where was Rosamund? What was the meaning of it all?

"You are supposed to be eloping with my sister Rosamund," Percival said finally, when it was clear that no one else was going to take it upon themselves to explain. "To Gretna Green."

"Gretna Green!" he exclaimed, looking more shocked than ever. "With Miss Dumbledore? No indeed! Whatever made you think that?"

"This letter," said Rachel, and then handed it over to him. Mr Stephenson read it quickly and then frowned.

"She is not talking about me, I assure you," he said. "I can only assume that she is speaking of my brother – they did seem to favour each other, and I did not see him at all this morning. I expect she wrote 'Mr Stephenson' and not 'Mr Edgar Stephenson' because she assumed it would have been obvious which Mr Stephenson she meant."

Everyone in the room digested this new information in stunned silence. Mrs Clarkend and Mr Stephenson both left the room to go and see Louisa and the baby. The servants began to disperse. Still, everyone was out of sorts – no one was quite sure what to do with themselves.

The rest of the day was like this. Every time Percival passed someone in the corridor, he was given a new little bit of information or gossip. Soon it came out that Mr Stephenson was not the father of the child at all – that it was someone by the name of Phineas Nigellus Black (where had Percival heard that name before?) – but that Mr Stephenson was determined to raise the child as his own, and had been since he had learnt of Louisa's condition. All comparisons drawn with Napoleon were now lost, and Mr Stephenson was regarded throughout the house as a saint amongst men.

This was not to say that the family was happy, for they were all quite miserable. The shock was slowly wearing away into numbness and crumbling into confusion. Only part of the family gathered to eat dinner at the usual time.

Percival was among them. He sat at the table, hardly touching his food. A strange tapping noise caused him to look up, and then jump up from his chair in alarm. At the window directly across from him was a large brown owl.

Everyone in the room was quite bemused by the owl's presence at their window. Percival opened it quickly, and found that his suspicions were confirmed – it had a letter for him. Percival had read all about owl post in 'A Muggleborn's Guide to Magic'. "Err," he said to the owl, aware that his family must think him insane, "could you wait a minute or two?" The owl regarded him almost boredly, which Percival took to mean yes. Without a glance at his family, he rushed up the stairs and into his room, where he opened the letter read it. Poorly spelt in scrawling handwriting was this:

_Dear Percival,_

_I think you aught to come to Hogwarts with us after Christmas holidays. I really think you aught to. I have just thought of it and I think it is an exellent scheme. If you want to learn magic Hogwarts is the place to do it in. I'm sure you can think of something to tell your family if you want to come. I could have used Fawkes to send you this letter but I thought he might stand out to much with the Muggles._

_Yours &c.,_

_Catherine Ollivander_

Besides a whole host of thoughts which ran through his mind, such as whether it were really appropriate for an eleven-year-old girl to be writing letters to a young man, and the fact that an owl delivering letters would likely attract just as much attention amongst Muggles as a phoenix - go to Hogwarts? Percival had never even considered it as a possibility. Now he wondered if he might somehow do it. After all, what Catherine had written was true – if he wanted to learn magic, he supposed that there was no better place to do it in than Hogwarts. He heard a tapping at his window, and spun around. The owl was there, having somehow found his room. It looked impatient.

Resisting the urge to correct her spelling errors, Percival hastily scribbled his reply:

_Dear Catherine_ (or should he call her 'Miss Ollivander'?),

_I think that it is an excellent scheme as well. I should very much like to go to Hogwarts. Do you think they would let me, though? The people who run the school, I mean. I could not very well take classes with all of the younger children._

_And I must think of some way to convince my parents to let me go. Perhaps I will tell them that I am going to visit a friend. What does your brother think about this? And when would we leave for the school?_

_Yours &c.,_

_Percival Dumbledore_

Percival sent the letter away with the owl, and then went back downstairs. He found his mother alone in the corridor. "Mother," he said, "may I go to Scotland after the Christmas holidays are over?"

She regarded him for a moment and then said, "Have you found someone to elope with as well, then?"

It was so unlike her – and so like him, perhaps – that Percival was taken aback. "No," he replied simply. "My friend has invited me to stay with him for a while. He has a – um – a tutor there, who I think is willing to instruct me as well."

His mother sighed, and looked wearied. "I don't know, Percival. I think that your father and I ought to meet these people before sending our son off to live with them for God knows how long."

Percival debated with himself for a minute, before stating, "They're wizards." He knew that if she met them they would seem odd to her, and then she would suspect, and then she would not trust him, and would be less inclined to let him do anything.

She gave a strained, humourless laugh. "Wizards!" she exclaimed. "Well, of course they are! Wizards! Why not? Rosamund is eloping, Terrence is bringing strange women into the house, you're a _wizard_ – Maria is the only one who hasn't disappointed us in some way or another!"

"Thanks," said Percival. "If you meet these people – they're very respectable people, I assure you, even if they _are_ wizards – will you let me go to Scotland?"

"Who are these people?" she demanded. "What are their names?"

"Alistair and Catherine Ollivander," he answered.

"A girl?" his mother said sharply.

"Yes, a girl. She's Alistair's sister," he replied, becoming impatient. "Do you want to meet them? I can write to them and invite them over if you like."

"Fine," she said. "Fine, yes. But they cannot stay for long. Lord knows we don't want strangers in our house at a time like this." Upstairs, there was the crash of someone knocking something over, and a shout. The baby began to cry.


	7. Chapter VI

**Author's Note:** Hello again! Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading and reviewing this story. I honestly thought I'd get maybe one or two reviews. I'm so glad that people seem to be enjoying it.

So did the last chapter leave you suitably confused? I hope I didn't lose anyone there – I needed things to be a bit chaotic. And, well, there's not much else to say right now... enjoy this next chapter!

* * *

**Dumbledore (Part I – The Phoenix)**

**Chapter VI**

**- **

Catherine and Alistair weren't completely unaccustomed to dressing like Muggles, that much was clear. Percival thought that they had done rather well. Their clothes were out of fashion by about ten years, but it wasn't terribly noticeable.

They were seated in the drawing room of the Clarkends' house, and Mr and Mrs Dumbledore were seated across from them. Both looked a little disgruntled. Percival was sitting in a chair by Catherine, praying silently that they were making a good impression.

"So you live in Scotland," Mrs Dumbledore was saying.

"Yes, ma'am," Alistair replied. "In Edinburgh."

"Hmm," said Mr Dumbledore, glancing out the window. He looked as though he would have rather been anywhere else than where he was. He always said that visiting was the dullest thing on earth, but then, there weren't many things that Mr Dumbledore did not find dull. "I could never abide Edinburgh. It rains too much." Percival thought this statement a bit rich coming from someone who chose to reside in Bath for the better part of the year.

"Percival tells us you met him at Eton," Mrs Dumbledore continued.

"That's right," Alistair said, glancing nervously at Percival. They had discussed the Eton story beforehand. It seemed more respectable than, 'We met in an abandoned cottage in the middle of a moor'. "Um, Eton. Yes. Horrid place."

Mrs Dumbledore seemed to relax a bit at this. She was quite ready to believe that Percival could become friends with someone who hated Eton as much as he did. She was also pleased to see that Alistair's little sister was far too young to trick her son into marrying her. "It is very kind of you to invite Percival to come and stay with you. He has never been to Scotland."

"Really!" Catherine exclaimed.

"It's true," Percival admitted. "I've never been further north than Oxford."

"Well," said Mrs Dumbledore, standing. "It was lovely to meet you both, but we are expecting visitors... Percival will show you to the door."

Alistair, Catherine, and Percival got up and left the room. Mrs Dumbledore sighed. They were not actually expecting visitors, but she thought that the less time a wizard and a witch spent in the same room as her, the better. She was still not quite ready to admit to herself that her own son was a wizard, even in the face of considerable evidence.

Out in the corridor, Percival was saying goodbye to his friends. "I think it went rather well," he told them. "I can't see how she would find anything to say against you."

"Was I all right as a Muggle, then?" Catherine asked, concern etched across her face. "I stayed up all last night practicing."

Percival did not know what to make of this, but assured her that she had been superb as a Muggle. He left out the fact that her clothing was just a bit odd, and her manner was just a bit odd, and, well, everything about her was just a bit _odd_. That could not be helped. Witches, even if they had stayed up all night practicing to be Muggles, would always inevitably seem just a bit odd to everybody else.

"Write to us and tell us if you can come or not," Alistair said, pulling on his coat. "And if you can, we will be here to pick you up on the fifth. Don't worry about the Headmaster letting you in – he'll have to. You got a letter, after all, you were just a bit... delayed."

"I hope you can come! Oh, it will be so much fun!" Catherine said merrily. Alistair rolled his eyes almost imperceptibly.

"I hope I can come too," Percival replied. "You should _see_ what's going on in this house – well, it's too long of a story to tell now."

"You'll explain it all to us on the fifth!" Catherine called as she went out the door after her brother. "Goodbye!"

Percival walked back into the drawing room, and found Maria, Rachel, and Jane in the midst of a heated, tearful argument. He did not even bother to find out what it was about. Such things had become common in the past few days, now that everyone in the house was in such abominable spirits. His uncle was sitting by the window with a glass of brandy in his hand, and his aunt was sitting rigid on the sofa, looking uncharacteristically ashen-faced. His mother was holding the newspaper.

"Any news today?" Percival asked. The baby started crying upstairs.

"It's all over the papers," Mrs Dumbledore said, her forehead creased. "They're calling it the Clarkend-Stephenson Scandal. I'm only glad they haven't put _our_ name in it."

"Well, 'the Clarkend-Stephenson-Dumbledore Scandal' would take up too much room," Percival reasoned.

"Percival, _why_ must you have a contemptuous response to everything any of us say?" Mrs Dumbledore asked, exasperated.

"I don't!" Percival said defensively. "It's true, it would take up too much room! What's contemptuous about that? And can I go to Scotland or not?"

"Yes!" Mrs Dumbledore cried. "Yes, Percival! For God's sake, go to Scotland!"

Percival left the room, grinning victoriously.

* * *

On the fifth of January, a carriage pulled up in front of the Clarkends' house. It was a very normal-looking carriage, shining a dull black against the greying, slushy snow that comes with January in London. Nothing about the carriage betrayed the fact that its occupants were a wizard and a witch. Only Percival and his mother were sensible of this. 

All of Percival's luggage (which mostly consisted of books) was loaded into the carriage, and then Percival climbed in as well. He bid farewell to his mother, who was the only one who had found the time to come and see him off (and did not seem terribly sad to see him go), and then the carriage rattled off down the street.

This was, of course, a bit disconcerting, given that the carriage had no driver or horses. It moved entirely on its own, by magic. Percival had read about these so-called horseless carriages in 'A Muggleborn's Guide to Magic'; apparently to Muggles the carriage looked like every other carriage in London, and they did not spare it a second glance.

The problem with the horseless carriage, though, was that it was rather unreliable. It kept wanting to veer off in contrary directions, and Alistair was constantly shouting instructions at it. Percival knew better than to attempt to converse with a angry, shouting Scot, and turned his attention to Catherine. "How long will it take us to get to Hogwarts, do you think?"

"Oh!" said Catherine. "Not long at all."

Percival looked puzzled. "But it is in Scotland, is it not? And the roads are horrible in the winter. It must take days."

"The other way!" Alistair shouted at the carriage.

"Days?" Catherine laughed, ignoring her brother. "We're not going the _Muggle_ way."

"Ahh," said Percival. He wondered if the horseless carriage was capable of reaching immense speeds.

"Grandpa would have liked to see us off," said Catherine, "but he couldn't leave the shop."

"What about Fawkes?" Percival asked.

"We aren't allowed to bring him to school." Catherine made a face. "He's back at my aunt's house in Edinburgh."

"No!" Alistair roared at the carriage. "Away from the river, _away_!"

"I hope you're right about them letting me into Hogwarts," Percival continued, relatively unfazed. "I've got the letter." He took it out of his pocket, and glanced down at it, then froze. He swallowed thickly.

"What's the matter?" Catherine asked, concerned.

"We're here!" Alistair shouted, looking very irate. The carriage had come to an abrupt stop in front of a large tree.

"We're – at the school?" Percival wondered, momentarily forgetting the letter. "But I thought it was in Scotland."

Catherine laughed. "No, this isn't the school! This is how we're getting to the school. It's the Ministry of Magic. Come on." They all stepped out of the carriage. They managed to get their luggage unloaded, and as soon as the last bag had been taken out, the carriage disappeared.

"Was – was that supposed to happen?" Percival asked, feeling stupid again.

"Of course," said Alistair, "it was only on loan from the Ministry. Now hurry up, you two." And then he walked straight into the tree and disappeared.

Percival blinked. "Err," he said, "Catherine..."

Sensing his bafflement, Catherine said, "This is how we get into the Ministry of Magic." She took his hand, heaving her trunk in the other, and pulled him toward the tree. "Don't worry, but walk a bit faster, Alistair's waiting." And before he knew quite what was happening, Catherine had led him straight into the tree. Percival stared around him. They were standing in a small, panelled, circular room. The polished interior of the tree.

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic," a woman's voice said out of nowhere.

"Gah!" said Percival.

"Please state your name and business," the voice continued calmly.

"Alistair Ollivander, Catherine Ollivander, and Percival Dumbledore," Alistair replied abruptly, still looking rather cross after his ordeal with the horseless carriage. "Returning to Hogwarts."

"Admitted," the voice said. "Though there's no need to be so unpleasant about it." They began to descend. Percival felt his stomach lurch. He hated not knowing what was going on. Alistair and Catherine seemed unfazed, though, so he assumed that this was normal. "The Atrium," said the voice, and then the panel in front of them slid open like a door. They stepped out.

The Atrium was a huge hall, with rich wood panelling, highly polished floors, and gilded fireplaces lining the walls. Percival watched in wonder as people appeared and disappeared in and out of the fireplaces in flashes of green flames. There were people in robes and attempts at Muggle clothing everywhere. A large sign on a pole nearby read, "HOGWARTS STUDENTS THIS WAY PLEASE" with an arrow pointing toward the centre of the hall.

Percival could make out a very disordered looking queue as they approached the centre of the room. A distracted looking man in official robes was standing next to a sign that said, "LUGGAGE".

"Do you have your name on all of your luggage?" Alistair asked Percival quickly.

"Yes," Percival replied. "But..." he trailed off. For once he was sick of asking questions. He made up his mind to simply observe. Catherine and Alistair set their trunks down in front of the man, so Percival did the same. The man waved his wand absently, and the luggage disappeared. Percival nearly choked – all of his favourite books were in that trunk.

"It's a twenty minute wait in the queue," the man informed them grumpily. "Move along, please."

They joined the back of the queue. Percival was tall, but still could not make out what was going on at the front of the line. "What exactly are we queuing up for?" he asked.

"The portkey," Alistair replied. "It's how we get to and from Hogwarts, mostly. There are more of them, there's one in Edinburgh, and one somewhere in Ireland... they're set up expressly for Hogwarts students at the beginning and end of holidays. I think the idea is to keep things efficient."

Percival glanced around at the jostling queue, and the luggage worker and his equally harassed fellow employees and thought that it did not seem very efficient. "But all of the fireplaces here, they're connected to the floo network, right? What about Hogwarts, is Hogwarts connected to the floo network as well?"

"Yes," said Catherine, "some of it is, but they don't want students popping out of fireplaces all over the place. This is nothing, though... you should see it at the end of summer holidays! Complete chaos. I'm only in first year, of course, but Alistair tells me it's like that every September."

"There must be a more efficient way of getting everyone to the school and back," Percival mused as they shuffled forward in the queue.

"None that they've thought up so far," Alistair replied. Ten more minutes passed. The queue moved diligently forward. Suddenly, Alistair seemed to catch sight of something. He raised his arm and waved. "Potter!" he called. "Potter! Come over here!"

A grinning, dark haired young man approached them. "Alistair," he said, "do you mind if I slip into line with you, then?" Alistair replied that he did not, and the boy seemed greatly relieved. "Thanks," he said. "I thought I'd never get rid of my mother. She's stuffed all my pockets with sweets." He made a face. "Oh, hullo, Cathy."

"Hullo," she replied, eyeing his pockets.

Percival was not entirely sure what he was complaining about, and raised his eyebrows. The boy seemed to notice him and said, "Who's this, then?"

"Oh," said Alistair, "this is Percival, Percival Dumbledore. He's coming to Hogwarts. He... err... well he got his letter when he was eleven, but his mother hid it from him, and... he's Muggleborn, you see."

"Ah," said the boy, giving Percival a sympathetic look. "One of those." He stuck out his hand and Percival shook it. "Pleased to make your acquaintance – I'm Michael Potter, by the way. Are they going to sort you?"

"I don't know," Percival replied. He had not thought about what kind of living arrangements they would make for him, if they even let him stay. Suddenly he felt a bit nervous. "How do they sort you, anyway?"

"There's a hat," Michael explained, "and they put it on your head – "

But he was cut off by a thin, severe-looking Ministry official calling, "NEXT! Step forward, please!" They were at the front of the queue. The portkey appeared to simply be a wooden poll. "Only three more," the official declared, stopping Michael Potter in his tracks. "Come on, hurry up now, there are others waiting."

"See you at the school, then," Alistair said to Michael with a shrug.

"No time for pleasantries!" the official barked. "Hands on the pole!" They grasped the pole. "Off you go, then!"

It was one of the most physically unpleasant things that Percival had ever experienced. He felt something in his stomach twist, as if someone had hooked him and were yanking him forward, and felt air rushing all around him, pressing into him, saw colours spinning in a blur around him, and then abruptly he was on the ground again, still clutching the pole, head reeling.

"We're here!" Catherine said pleasantly.

Percival took a deep, shuddering breath. He glanced down. There was a pile of discarded poles which had evidently been used as portkeys at his feet. "It took us ten seconds to get to Scotland," he murmured. "That's... that's..."

"We have to get out of the way," Alistair said, breaking into Percival's astonishment. "Other people are going to be coming." The three of them began to walk away. "Yes, so... this is Hogwarts," Alistair waved his hand out in front of him.

They were walking through thick snow up the grounds toward a castle. Percival had never seen anything like it. It was massive, sprawling, with what seemed like thousands of windows, towers, and turrets. On one side of the castle, the ground broke away abruptly to form a high cliff, and beneath it lay a wide, frozen lake. A little ways behind the school, he could make out the dark edge of a forest, black branches stark against the soft grey sky. When Percival managed to tear his eyes away from this scene, he saw that the grounds were filled with students having just arrived back from the Holidays.

They went through the doors of the castle, into a large entrance hall. There were puddles of melted snow everywhere, and it seemed as though almost as many students were inside as were out in the grounds.

"What do we do now?" asked Percival, feeling rather out of place. He wondered how long it would take everyone to realise that he did not belong here.

"We have to go speak with the Headmaster," Alistair replied. "Best do that now. Follow me."

Alistair led them up staircases, through corridors, behind tapestries, and around corners. By the time they reached their destination, Percival felt a bit dizzy, and wondered how on earth he would ever find his way around the place.

Alistair knocked on a large oak door, and it immediately swung open to reveal a tall, kindly-looking man in spectacles. Percival thought that he looked a bit familiar, but could not place him. Perhaps he simply had one of those faces. "Yes?" the man inquired.

"Professor Lovegood," said Alistair. "We need to speak with the Headmaster. It's quite important."

"I see," Professor Lovegood replied, glancing at Percival, but asking no questions. "The Headmaster is in his office at the moment. I shall take you there."

And then they were off again, up stairwells, through doors, on and on until Percival gave up on trying to remember the route. Eventually they came to stand before a large stone gargoyle. "Password," said Professor Lovegood, and the gargoyle slid back to reveal a room, which they all went into.

They stepped onto a stone staircase, which immediately began rising upward in a circular motion. Percival found that he was already becoming accustomed to these strange occurrences. He supposed that this was a good thing. "The password to get into the office is 'password'?" he asked incredulously as they arrived at the top of the staircase and stood outside a polished oak door.

"Yes, well," said Professor Lovegood, rapping on the door, "I believe it is the Headmaster's idea of humour." He opened the door, and they walked into the office.

Percival stared at the man seated at the desk in front of him. He had pale skin, black hair, and a pointed beard, and was regarding them with raised eyebrows and a twisted sort of smile. Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black – this was the man who had ruined his cousin's reputation. Percival felt his stomach clench and his face grow hot.

"Well well," the Headmaster drawled as the door closed behind them, "the Ollivanders have brought something back from their holiday."


	8. Chapter VII

**Author's Note: **Somebody asked if I was intending to have a lot of the characters be ancestors of people who are around at Harry's time. The simple answer for this is, yes. Most of the characters will be ancestors of characters who actually appear in the books. The reason for this is mostly because the old wizarding families have to play a large role, and this is in part because there aren't a lot of Muggleborns attending Hogwarts at the moment. So we've got a lot of characters called Dumbledore and Ollivander (obviously), and Potter, and Malfoy, and Black, and Lestrange and such running about. 

Aside from that, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Review and tell me what you think! Thanks to everyone who's reading! Oh, and to everyone who wants me to review their stuff, I promise I will, I've just been so busy lately! I'll definitely get round to it soon.

* * *

**Dumbledore (Part I – The Phoenix)**

**Chapter VII – Phineas Nigellus Black**

**- **

Percival had expected to be outraged at the sight of him. He had expected to launch into a tirade, full of moralising statements, demands for compensation on his cousin's part, and righteous indignation. Instead, he found himself standing there mutely, neither enraged nor particularly confident. Now that it came to it, he did not have a clue what to say to the man – and there was also the problem that if he offended him, he would likely be turned away from Hogwarts forever. Was it worth it? He pressed his lips together.

Professor Lovegood waved his wand, and three chairs appeared out of nowhere in front of the desk. "Professor Black," he said, "Mr Ollivander tells me that he has important business with you."

Black gave Alistair a shrewd look and said, "Does he really? How very odd. Well, as Professor Lovegood has been so _good_ as to conjure up chairs for the three of you, do sit down."

Alistair, Percival, and Catherine sat down as ordered. Percival shifted uncomfortably. The chairs were rigid and hard. Professor Lovegood was standing beside the Headmaster's desk with his arms crossed, apparently having no inclination to leave.

"Professor," Alistair began, "this is Percival Dumbledore. He is Muggleborn, and never received his letter till this summer. His mother hid it from him because she thought it was a joke. But now he knows better, and he wishes to stay at Hogwarts and learn to become a proper wizard."

"Is that so?" Black asked, turning his gaze lazily to Percival and fixing him with a rather unnerving stare. "How tragic. Unfortunately, this young man is well over the age at which most students are admitted to the school. He must be seventeen already."

"I won't be seventeen till May," Percival replied, fighting to maintain eye contact with the Headmaster. He was sorely tempted to look out the window, or down at his feet, or at the strange, patched hat sitting on the shelf behind the desk.

"I am afraid that I could not permit you to take classes with the first years," Black continued, templing his fingers. "And I think I may assume that you would not particularly enjoy being in a class of eleven-year-olds anyhow, Mr Dumbledore."

"If I may," Professor Lovegood spoke up, "Mr Dumbledore may not be required to attend classes at all. He could very easily make use of our excellent library, and apply to the teachers for assistance if he needed – "

Black waved of his hand. "The professors certainly cannot spare the time to tutor a student who is so very far behind," he said dismissively. "It is – ah – a great shame, of course, but - "

"But that isn't fair!" Catherine cut him off. "He's got the letter, he can show it to you! He's a wizard, and he's got the right to attend school. It's _law_."

Black let her finish, and then said, wryly, "You are very well versed in wizarding law for an eleven-year-old girl, of course, Miss Ollivander – however, I would thank you to not interrupt me. Five points from Gryffindor." Catherine flushed.

Professor Lovegood, however, seemed to agree with Catherine. "It is law, Phineas," he stated, peering at Percival. "You cannot legally refuse him entry to the school – unless, of course, he presented some sort of threat, which he clearly does not – especially as he is under seventeen."

Black regarded Percival steadily, with just the slightest hint of a frown. He was silent for some time, almost as if he were trying to think of some way that Percival posed a threat to the school. Finally, with a slight sigh, he said, "Very well. You are lucky, Mr Dumbledore, that you have clever friends. But the question still begs to be answered – what are we going to do with you?"

Percival thought he knew what the Headmaster would like to do with him – he certainly knew what he would like to do with the Headmaster – but he kept his mouth shut. Professor Lovegood spoke up again. "If he has the initiative and the discipline, he could very well be mostly self taught, seeing as how he is in a controlled environment. And I do not see that any of the teachers would be unwilling to help him. I, personally, should be glad to." He gave Percival a small smile. Percival found that he rather liked Professor Lovegood.

"Do you have the initiative and discipline?" Black wondered, in a tone that clearly suggested his belief that he did not.

"Yes," Percival said firmly, "I do. I've been mostly self-taught for over a year anyway."

"Very well," said Black, leaning back in his chair and looking unpleasant. "But there is still the question of where to put you. Certainly not in a dormitory with the first years, that much is clear. And, the more pressing matter, which house shall you be in?"

Catherine, unable to contain herself, spoke out again. "He ought to be put in Gryffindor," she said. "He only knows me and my brother, and we're both in Gryffindor."

"Yes, Miss Ollivander, but _your_ opinion hardly matters, does it?" Black replied tiredly, as if she were being extremely tedious. "No, Mr Dumbledore will be sorted into his proper house, just like every new student at the school. I rather think it might be Slytherin," he said, clearly enjoying the incredulous looks on Alistair and Catherine's faces, "since it must have taken a great deal of ambition to even come to be sitting in this office. Let's see, shall we?" He rose from his chair, and took the battered old hat off the shelf behind him. Addressing the hat, he said, "We have a new student for you to sort. I know it is late in the year, but these are... special circumstances."

"Very well, then!" the hat exclaimed, startling Percival a good deal.

Black walked around the desk, and placed the hat on Percival's head. As soon as it covered his ears, the sound in the room dimmed, as if he were underwater. The hat immediately began speaking to him. "Dumbledore, is it?" came the hat's voice in his ear, and Percival started again. "A Muggleborn, I see. What a treat. We haven't had many of you lately. Phineas Nigellus is right, of course, it must have taken a good deal of ambition to arrive here – also hard work, nerve, and cleverness – so where to put you? Not Slytherin, I think... not Hufflepuff... you might be good in Ravenclaw, yes, but I think the best house for you is... GRYFFINDOR!"

The hat shouted the last word aloud for everyone in the office to hear. Black took it off Percival's head and placed it back on the shelf behind his desk where it was silent once more. Percival felt as though a great weight had disappeared from his stomach.

"Well," Black said briskly, "I see Miss Ollivander has got her wish. Very well. You will return to the Gryffindor common room, and you will be staying in the dormitory with the other sixth year boys. Professor Lovegood, coincidentally, is the head of your house. Oh, and Mr Dumbledore, you will be expected to abide by all of the school rules which apply to _normal_ students while you are here, so you may wish to have your friends explain them to you."

"Excellent, I'll explain it all to him," said Alistair, grinning, and they all rose from their chairs.

"Not so fast," Black called, now smirking slightly. "There is one more thing. If Mr Dumbledore wishes to continue at Hogwarts past the point at which he would have left school, had he started when he was supposed to, I have one requirement."

"What's that?" Percival asked, feeling his heart sink a bit.

"Only that at the end of what would have been your seventh year – that is, not this June, but the June after that – you will sit your O.W.L.s with the fifth years, and pass them all. You may concentrate on any nine subjects, except for Muggle Studies."

"Phineas, really," said Professor Lovegood, "don't you think that's a bit – lofty?"

"Not at all," Black replied, smirk deepening. "I think that it is perfectly reasonable. Indeed, it is doing Dumbledore a favour. I am not legally obligated to allow him to continue at school after he is seventeen, and I am giving him an opportunity to do so, should he choose to take it."

"But Phineas," Lovegood pressed, "to expect someone with no experience to condense five years of study into a year and a half - "

"I'm sure that Mr Dumbledore, with the determination so inherent in a Gryffindor, will find a way to do it," he interrupted. "After all, we have already established that he has remarkable ambition. And now, if you please, I have some business to attend to. Farewell."

Percival quit the office with Alistair, Catherine, and Professor Lovegood. He did not know whether he ought to feel happy or frustrated. When they emerged into the corridor again, Professor Lovegood addressed him. "You'll need a uniform," he said, "unless you want to stand out like a sore thumb. I'll take you to Hogsmeade myself on Saturday. That way you can get all of your necessary supplies."

Percival thought that this was very generous, and thanked him. "But what are O.W.L.s?" he asked.

"Ordinary Wizarding Levels," Lovegood replied. "Normally sat by students in fifth year. They usually consist of a practical test and a written examination."

"And how am I to decide which subjects to concentrate on?" Percival wondered as they continued walking. "I don't even know what subjects there are."

"Mr Ollivander will explain it all to you, I hope," Professor Lovegood replied as they came to the door of his office. "Meet me in the entrance hall on Saturday." He smiled. "Welcome to Hogwarts." And then he went into his office.

Percival, Alistair, and Catherine continued on through the corridors, and Percival finally began to feel truly excited. Nevermind Phineas Nigellus Black. He was not going think about that right now. He was going to enjoy his victory – he was a Hogwarts student. He had done it.

"So Professor Lovegood is the head of Gryffindor house?" Percival asked. '_My_ house,' he thought, and grinned.

"Yes," Catherine answered. "He teaches History of Magic. He's brilliant."

Eventually, after climbing what seemed like a dozen staircases, they arrived at a painting of a fat lady in a pink dress. "How am I ever going to find my way around this place?" Percival shook his head.

"Oh, you'll get lost all the time, at least for the first couple weeks," Catherine assured him. "But after awhile it becomes easier. Well, are we going in or not?"

'I haven't got the password," Alistair replied. "Have you?"

"No," Catherine frowned.

Just then, the portrait swung open, and a blond-haired boy sporting a prefect's badge came out of a hole behind it. Percival stared. "Hello, Alistair," the boy said. He surveyed Percival with pale blue eyes. "Who's this?"

"Percival Dumbledore," Alistair answered. "But I'll explain later. Listen, Dominic, what's the password?"

"Are you going to leave me hanging open all day?" the fat lady in the portrait suddenly cried. Percival gaped. He had thought he had seen some of the portraits in the Headmaster's office moving, but apparently they could speak as well. He tried to remember if he had read about this in 'A Muggleborn's Guide to Magic'.

"Just hold on," Alistair told her irritably.

"The password is 'Hogmanay'," Dominic said, as a couple of girls exited the portrait hole behind him. "And have you seen Potter? He owes me seven sickles."

"I saw him at the Ministry, he was in the queue behind us, but I haven't seen him since," Alistair replied, climbing through the portrait hole. Catherine and Percival followed him.

"All right, I'll see you at supper!" Dominic called after him, and the portrait swung closed behind them.

"Michael's owed Dominic seven sickles since third year," Alistair remarked. "You'd think he'd have let it go by now."

"This," said Catherine, ignoring her brother, "is the Gryffindor common room." It was the most comfortable-looking room Percival had ever seen. There were cosy armchairs, a blazing fire, warm rugs and wall hangings everywhere. It was currently filled with chattering students having just returned back from the Christmas holiday.

"Come on," said Alistair, "I'll show you our dormitory. Cathy, we'll see you at supper." Percival followed Alistair up a spiral staircase and through a door into the sixth year boys' dormitory. It was a circular room with five four poster beds, a trunk at the bottom of each. "I guess they put a new bed in here for you," Alistair observed. "There were only four of them before." On one of the beds, a portly boy with sandy brown hair was sitting, reading a book. "Hi, Gilbert," Alistair greeted him.

Gilbert looked up. "Oh, hullo, Alistair," he said. "Any idea why we've got an extra bed in here? And who's that with you?"

"Percival Dumbledore," Alistair explained, for what seemed like the fiftieth time. "He's the reason for the extra bed. He's a new student. Look, we'll explain it all tonight when everyone's here – it saves us the trouble of explaining it over and over again."

Gilbert shrugged. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Percival," he said. "I hope you like Hogwarts. I'm Gilbert Prewett, by the way."

"Nice to meet you too," Percival replied, feeling slightly optimistic. Every student he had met so far had been friendly to him. "I do like Hogwarts. It is very hard to get around, though."

"You'll get used to it," Gilbert assured him, then glanced down at his pocket watch. "Blimey, is it time for supper already? Good, I'm famished. Let's go!"

They joined the throng of students heading down to the Great Hall for supper. Alistair and Gilbert were talking about their Christmas and what classes they had the next day, so Percival tried to take in his surroundings and start forming a mental map of the school.

They were interrupted by a slender blonde girl who looked very well pleased with herself gliding up beside them. "Who's this Muggle you've got with you, Ollivander?" she smirked. "My, aren't we lowering our standards just a bit?"

"I'm right here, you know," Percival shot back at her. "You could talk to me instead of pretending I can't hear you."

She arched her eyebrows and stuck her chin up. "I do not speak to _Muggles_," she sneered, and then laughed and sauntered off to go stand with a group of her friends.

"Who on earth was _that?_" Percival asked, glaring after her.

"Elmira Malfoy," Alistair replied. "Dominic's good-for-nothing twin sister. She's in Slytherin. Evil, all of them."

"Dominic?" Percival said, perplexed. "The one who gave us the password to get into the common room? But he's in Gryffindor, shouldn't his sister be in the same house as he is?"

"Not necessarily," Gilbert piped up. "Dominic's older brother was in Slytherin as well. Malfoys are always in Slytherin. The lot of them had a fit when Dominic got put in Gryffindor. Sometimes siblings do all get put in the same house – sometimes they don't.

They entered the Great Hall, and once again Percival was taken aback by the grand oddness of the place. The Hall was enormous and ornate, with four long tables for the students and one for the teachers at the head of the room. Percival glanced up. "There's no ceiling," he remarked.

"Yes there is," Alistair replied, as they walked toward the Gryffindor table. "It's bewitched to look like the sky outside." Currently is was a dark, satiny grey, and snowing.

After supper, everyone returned to the common room. They were all in high spirits as the holidays were over and they were reunited with their friends, but classes had not yet begun. Percival, Alistair, and Catherine sat by the fire, and attracted quite a crowd as Percival began his explanation of how and why he had come to Hogwarts.

"And the Headmaster told me that if I passed all of my O.W.L.s next year, I could stay on as a student," he finished finally.

"Leave it to old Phineas to think up something ridiculous like that," remarked Dominic, who was sitting in a chair nearby. "I'm surprised he let you in at all. He hates Muggleborns, everyone knows it."

"That's right," said Michael, who was idly transfiguring a candle stub into a rock and back again. "I'm glad you've come to the school. Everyone in our year is pureblood. Everyone."

"His son is in my year," Catherine said, making a face, "and he's terrible. Cassius Black. He lit my hair on fire on the second day of school and told the teachers he couldn't tell the difference because it looked burnt anyway." Alistair guffawed.

Percival wondered if he ought to tell them about Phineas Nigellus and his cousin, but he opted not to. He was not exactly comfortable relating his family secrets (whether they were in the London papers or not) to a group of twenty people, most of whom he had never met before that day, and did not fancy starting a deprecatory rumour about the Headmaster that could be traced back to him.

The discussion soon turned to which subjects Percival should concentrate on for his O.W.L.s. "You've got to take the core subjects," Dominic told him, "so Charms, Astronomy, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Potions, Herbology, and History of Magic. Then you can choose two others: Care of Magical Creatures, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Divination - "

"DON'T take Divination," Catherine said suddenly. She looked disgruntled.

"Why not?" Percival blinked.

"Cassandra Trelawney teaches it. She's horrible."

"But she's famous!" someone in the group exclaimed. "The most celebrated seer of the century! All of her predictions come true!"

"Yes," said Alistair, slamming the book he had been holding shut. Several people jumped. "Thank you _ever_ so much for reminding us. Percival, don't take Divination if you can help it. The less you see of that woman, the better."

"I – well – all right, then," Percival said, bemused. The conversation soon turned to other things. Percival realised that he felt exhausted.

"I'm going to bed," Gilbert announced, yawning hugely.

"Me too," said Percival, standing up. He would worry about which subjects to study the next day. For now, all he wanted to do was sleep. He followed Gilbert up the stairs and into the dormitory.

"Have you any idea why Alistair and Catherine hate this Trelawney woman so much?" Percival asked as they changed into their night-clothes.

"It's because of their parents, I suppose," Gilbert replied. "And when you think about it, you can hardly blame them..."

"Their parents?" Percival paused. "Why? What does she have to do with their parents?"

Gilbert looked up at him, astonished. "You don't know? Oh – well – I don't think I should tell you, then. I wouldn't want them to be angry with me. I'm sure they'll tell you eventually, though. You are their friend. Well, goodnight!" He got into bed and pulled the curtains around his four poster shut.

Percival got into his own bed, and stared up at the canopy. He wondered what had happened between Cassandra Trelawney and Alistair and Catherine's parents that Gilbert did not see fit to tell him. He could not speculate, however. His eyes were too heavy to stay open any longer. The last thing he thought of before he fell asleep was that he was finally where he belonged.


	9. Chapter VIII

**Author's Note: **Well, I seem to be updating every Friday night. I hesitate to say that I'm going to make that the official 'update day', so to speak, because next thing you know something will probably go wrong and I won't be able to update on Friday after all, but that's the way it's looking right now. As it is, the next update _should_ appear on Friday, because I _should_ be considerably less busy, what with the election being over and such.

Once again, thank you to everyone who's reading and reviewing! Oh, and hey, someone actually friended me on livejournal! I have a friend! And now, on with the story...

* * *

**Dumbledore (Part I – The Phoenix)**

**Chapter VIII - Encounters  
**

**- **

The next day was Friday, and the teachers had wisely decided that having one day of classes after the Christmas holiday was not a wise idea. There was some grumbling about this, of course, as there were the odd few people who would have rather stayed at home for an extended Christmas, but mostly everyone was happy to indulge in a long weekend with their friends.

For Percival, the day was chiefly spent receiving a tour of the school and its grounds from Alistair and Catherine. Gilbert Prewett tagged along as well. Percival had noticed that Michael Potter and Dominic Malfoy were something of a pair, and Alistair seemed to be friends with almost everyone, and he wondered if Gilbert felt a bit neglected.

"This is the Charms classroom," Catherine said as they passed a door to the right. "Charms is my second favourite class."

"What's your first favourite class?" Percival asked, as they continued on down a staircase. He glanced sideways at one of the portraits lining the wall and saw its occupant wave cheerily at him.

"History of Magic," Catherine replied. "It's so much fun. Like a novel, except it all really happened." Percival was inclined to agree. He had always liked history. It was the only class he had done well in at Eton.

"And there's the Ancient Runes classroom," Gilbert pointed out. "Are you good with languages?"

"Yes," Percival replied, remembering how he had taught himself to read Latin at the age of eleven. So he was good with Latin, at least – he had not exactly tried to learn anything else.

"You'll want to study Ancient Runes then," Gilbert said, nodding decisively. "I'm terrible with languages, but you can get Dominic Malfoy to help you. He's good at Ancient Runes. In fact," he continued, his expression that of mild disgust, "he's good at just about everything. What were his O.W.L. results?"

"Ten 'Outstandings' and one 'Troll'," Alistair replied with an amused smile. "We speculate that he failed Potions miserably because his father would have forced him to take it at N.E.W.T. level if he passed. Ah, Defence Against the Dark Arts," he said, as they went by another classroom. "That's my favourite."

"Well if I study Ancient Runes for one of my options," Percival said thoughtfully, "what should I study for the other one? Black told me I can't take Muggle Studies."

"Don't take Arithmancy," Gilbert warned. "I took it, and I'll regret it forever. And don't take Care of Magical Creatures. It's a lot of hands-on work, and, well, it's just not fun."

"But that only leaves Divination, doesn't it?" Percival said. Everyone was silent for a while.

"Study Divination if you must," Alistair said finally. "It'll be easy, anyway. It's a ridiculous excuse for a class. They shouldn't even be allowed to teach it."

Percival did not attempt to press the issue further. He wished that he knew why his friends hated Divination and its professor so much, and what this had to do with their deceased parents, but he knew how rude it would be to ask. Perhaps it was something that they did not wish to tell him till they knew him better. He hoped that they would eventually trust him well enough to confide in him.

Unless, of course, somebody else told him first.

He instantly felt bad for thinking such a thing. Gilbert Prewett had not told him, and he hoped that Alistair and Catherine's other friends would show them the same respect. No, he would simply have to wait.

Percival's reverie was soon interrupted, and by a wicked-looking little mad soaring toward them and whooping loudly. Percival shook his head, wondering if he was going mad. "Oooooh," the little man sang, "poor little Prewett's made some friends!" He did a somersault in mid-air, and swooped down around Gilbert's head.

"Argh!" Gilbert shouted, flapping his arms. "Go away, Peeves!"

Peeves ignored him, twirling his little hat on his finger. "Ollivander One and Ollivander Two!" he intoned in a high-pitched voice. He gave Alistair and Catherine an exaggerated bow.

"Honestly, Peeves, get out of the way," Alistair said threateningly, walking forward a bit.

"Oooooh," Peeves's little black eyes widened. "Big, scary Scotty MacScotsy wouldn't hurt little Peevesy!" He stuck his tongue out at them.

"I'll get the Bloody Baron," Alistair warned. "He likes Scots. Maybe I could persuade him to come and have a chat with you – "

Peeves made a face and balled his fists angrily. Alistair, Percival, Catherine and Gilbert began to walk away from him, Percival glancing back curiously.

"Yes, keep walking that way!" Peeves screeched after them. "That nasty wee Gaunt will be happy to see you!" And then he careened off down the corridor, cackling madly and singing rude things about Scots.

"What was _that_ all about?" Percival asked as they rounded a corner.

"That's just Peeves. He's a poltergeist. All he's good for is mayhem. Just ignore him," Alistair grumbled, and then stopped abruptly. Leaning against a statue directly in front of them, was a small, dingy boy with a twisted sort of face and arms that were rather too long for his body. He observed them blankly.

Gilbert cleared his throat. "Just keep walking," he urged his companions under his breath, but it was too late, for just then the strange boy spoke.

"Elmira Malfoy told me the Ollivanders had brought a Muggle to Hogwarts, but I didn't quite believe it till now," he said. His voice was low, but full of malice.

"Leave them alone," Gilbert glared at him.

"_Leave them alone_," the boy whined mockingly. "What's the matter, Prewett, scared you're going to lose your only friends? Muggle-loving Ollivanders and," he sniffed at Percival, "a mudblood?"

"Watch who you're calling a mudblood, Gaunt," Alistair hissed. "If anyone's a mudblood, you are. The Gaunts only marry their family members, is that right?"

The Gaunt boy pointed his wand at him. Alistair laughed coldly. "Go on then," he said. "Go on, do it. You're _this_ close to being expelled as it is, aren't you? They ought to ban your whole family from Hogwarts. They should have done it in the beginning."

Percival was now completely lost. He glanced at Gilbert, who was giving Alistair a pleading look, but Alistair ignored him. He was staring down at the boy, as if waiting for him to do something.

"They won't expel me," Gaunt said loftily. "Not while Black is the Headmaster. Do you really think he'd have the nerve to expel the _heir of Slytherin?"_

Now Catherine had her wand out. She was gripping it so hard her knuckles were white and pointing it straight at Gaunt. "That's hardly something to be proud of," she said, though he voice shook a bit, "and nobody but you gives a damn that you're heir of Slytherin anyway."

He gave her an ugly smile and said, "Your parents did. Oh, what are you going to do now, Ollivander? _Duel_ me?"

Catherine's face went very white. She pressed her lips together. She stuck her wand back in her pocket and said, with what seemed like great effort, "You're not worth it." She turned and began walking briskly back off down the corridor.

All within a second, Gaunt raised his wand, opened his mouth and formed half a word, but was thwarted by Alistair punching him squarely in the nose. He gasped, and blood began to stream down his dirty skin. Alistair shoved him, and he toppled over onto the floor. Percival would never know how far he would have gone, however, because the fight was interrupted by a woman shouting, "Mr Ollivander, stop that immediately!"

The woman who had appeared at the scene was large, and dressed completely in grey. Her silver hair was wound tightly into a bun at the nape of her neck. She reminded Percival a bit of a boulder. "Ten points from Gryffindor," she said firmly, "and detention with me. Now. And for the rest of the weekend."

"I WAS PROVOKED!" Alistair shouted, enraged. He had gone a worrying shade of red.

"Yes," said the woman brusquely, "Mr Gaunt, stand up." The boy did so, wiping his nose and leaving a smear of blood across his hand. "Fifty points from Slytherin for your _exceedingly_ inappropriate comments and for trying to hex Miss Ollivander. You are to return to your common room immediately and not put a foot outside it except for meals until classes begin. Am I perfectly clear?"

He sneered at her.

"Am I perfectly clear?" she repeated, her voice dangerous. She drew herself up and gave him a stony look.

"Yes, Professor," he muttered.

"Off with you, then," she jerked her head. "Next time you'll be hanging by your ankles in the dungeons!" Gaunt grimaced and slid off out of sight.

"Mr Ollivander, come with me," she beckoned him, and he followed her grudgingly off down the corridor.

Percival stood there for a minute, utterly bemused, before he remembered that Gilbert was there as well. "Err," he said. "What was _that_ all about?"

Gilbert simply shook his head. "You'd better ask Alistair and Cathy. I'm not the right person to explain it. Suffice to say their families hate each other – you must have gathered that much."

Percival nodded mutely. "And who was that woman, that professor?" he asked and they came into the Entrance Hall.

"That was Professor Masson," Gilbert replied, lowering his voice. "She teachers Defence Against the Dark Arts. She's good, but she's terrifying. You never know when she's going to pop up out of nowhere to get you in trouble. It seems like she always knows what's going on."

"Well," said Percival, walking through the large double doors and out into the grounds, "at least she takes care of people like that horrible Gaunt boy." It wasn't snowing anymore, and the sky was a clear, sharp blue. The sun was glinting off the snow and the ice on the lake. They seemed to be the only ones outside.

"It's cold," Gilbert shivered, rubbing his arms with his hands. Their breath was sending wisps of white into the otherwise still air. "Let's go back inside and eat something."

"I think I'm going to go find Cathy," Percival said as they walked back through the doors. "I'll see you later."

They parted ways, and Percival made his way up into the higher floors of the school. He roamed the corridors, looking for any sign of Catherine, and hoping that he would not meet with Peeves instead. He could not find her anywhere, and thought that she had probably gone back to the common room. After getting lost four times and winding up back where he started, Percival finally found himself standing in front of the Fat Lady. "Hogmanay," he said. The portrait swung open to admit him.

Catherine was sitting in a large armchair by the fire. Her feet were curled up under her, and she was reading a book. The rest of the common room was deserted. She glanced up when he entered and attempted a smile, but only succeeded in looking a bit ill.

He sat down across from her and observed her for a moment. "What are you reading?" he asked.

She shut the book and turned it around so he could see the cover. "Muggle stuff," she replied. "Ann Radcliffe."

"My sister read half of 'The Mysteries of Udolpho', and she had nightmares for a week," Percival remarked.

Catherine laughed. "Well," she said, "I like it. It is very... dramatic."

"It doesn't frighten you?"

"No," she smiled. "You can't take it too seriously. I think that books are more enjoyable if you can have a bit of a laugh at the characters' expense."

"So, Cathy..." he started, and then paused. He wanted to ask her about the Gaunt boy, and about Cassandra Trelawney, and her parents, but he could not think of how to do it. "Err..." She was looking at him expectantly. "I wanted to ask you..."

She blinked. "Yes...?" She raised her eyebrows and seem to tense slightly.

Percival sighed. "I, err, I just wondered, um... how'd you get that scar on your nose?" He silently cursed himself. He had not been able to go through with it.

She looked relieved. "Oh, the scar? It was nothing sinister. My brother was chasing me around the house when we were little, and I tripped and cut myself on the edge of a table. That's all. It's not very romantic. I think people are always disappointed when I tell them."

Percival wondered if he ought to go ahead and ask her what he had really meant to, but decided against it. What if she got angry with him? Or what if it only made her more upset? He certainly did not want to cause her any more distress than she had already experienced.

"What happened to my brother after I left?" she asked.

"Oh!" said Percival. "That's right, you weren't there. Well, Professor – oh, what was her name? – she teaches Defence Against the Dark Arts - "

"Masson," Catherine offered.

"That's it, Masson. Well, the Gaunt boy was about to hex you, apparently, and your brother punched him in the nose. Then Professor Masson appeared and took ten points from Gryffindor and gave Alistair detention for the rest of the week, but she took fifty points from Slytherin and told Gaunt that he wasn't to leave his common room till classes began again."

"He was going to hex me?" she looked angry. "And with my back turned, too. Well, that's not surprising coming from a Gaunt!"

"So, err, what exactly is a hex?" Percival asked. "It doesn't sound particularly good."

"It's not," she replied. "It's basically a spell that hurts you in some way. Worse than a jinx, but not as bad as a curse. He probably just would have turned me green, or something stupid like that. Did Alistair really punch him in the nose?" She smiled. "I wish I could have seen that." She fell silent, and glanced down at her book.

"If you like Muggle literature," Percival said, "I could lend you some of my books."

She brightened. "Really? What sorts of books?"

"Err," said Percival. He tried to think of what sort of book would be appropriate for an eleven-year-old girl. But, he mused, if she was reading Ann Radcliffe, it was probably too late for her anyway. "I'll bring you some you might like later on," he answered finally.

Just then, the portrait hole opened, and Alistair stepped inside. He looked disgruntled, but much calmer than when Percival had parted with him last. "Oh, hello," he said, catching sight of them. He walked over and flopped down in an armchair next to Catherine. "I just got through with detention. I saw Professor Black on the way up here – he must be in a bad mood about something, he saw fit to stop me and question me for five minutes about where I was going, and where I was coming from, as if any of it mattered to him..."

Percival realised that this was the perfect opportunity to tell Alistair and Catherine about Phineas Nigellus and his cousin. He waited for Alistair to finish and then said, "I haven't had the chance to tell you till now. Listen to what - "

But he was not allowed to go any further, for right at that moment the portrait hole opened again, and students came pouring in from dinner. Percival sighed in exasperation. He gave Alistair and Catherine an apologetic look, and assured them that he would tell them everything as soon as he could.

But when would that be? Percival was growing increasingly frustrated. He felt as though he would never have a moment alone with Alistair and Catherine to tell them about his cousin's scandal, and he would never find out why the Ollivanders hated the Gaunts, and, more mystifyingly, Cassandra Trelawney.


	10. Chapter IX

**Author's Note: **Back again, and it is indeed Friday! I think I can safely say now that Friday will be Update Day, unless something happens to delay my posting.

I'm also going to start posting the chapters in my livejournal. That way it's all backed up somewhere else as well, and people have two different places to read it. All of the chapters will be in my livejournal memories, and I'll update my livejournal on the same day I update here. The address of my livejournal can be found in my profile.

Once again, thank you to everyone who has been reading and reviewing. I'm shocked at the reception my story has got, really, and just thrilled. It's had over two hundred hits now, and I know that's not much compared to a lot of fan fictions, but I honestly expected to get maybe two or three reviews on the whole thing. Thank you!

* * *

**Dumbledore (Part I – The Phoenix)**

**Chapter IX - Hogsmeade**

**- **

The next day, Saturday, was clear and bright. Percival met Professor Lovegood in the entrance hall after breakfast that morning. The professor greeted him cheerfully, and then they started off across the grounds toward the village of Hogsmeade.

"It is cold," Professor Lovegood remarked, rubbing his hands together, "but the village isn't far away. You'll have to get used to Scottish winters now that you're a Hogwarts student!"

Percival, who had noticed the teacher had a slight accent, asked, "Are you from Scotland, sir?"

"No, Ireland," he replied, "though my accent's so weak now I'm not surprised you couldn't tell the difference. I've been a teacher at Hogwarts for nearly forty years now – since I was thirty – and owing to that, I've been almost entirely surrounded by the English."

Percival did the maths in his head and exclaimed, "Forty years since you were thirty? But that would make you - "

"Seventy, in October."

"But you don't look seventy at all," said Percival, bewildered. Admittedly, Professor Lovegood did not look _young_, but Percival had thought him to be not much older than fifty.

"You flatter me," Lovegood smiled amusedly. "But you are still thinking like a Muggle. I look quite normal for seventy as wizards go, I assure you. Wizards, you must understand, live a great deal longer than Muggles. A few wizards have lived to the age of nearly two hundred."

Percival could not quite wrap his mind around this. They were passing the Quidditch pitch, which Alistair had showed him through the window the day before. "I've read about Quidditch," Percival said. "Is it really played on broomstick, up in the air?"

"It is indeed," Professor Lovegood told him. "I believe you must now be acquainted with a Mr Potter, in your year? He is the captain of the Gryffindor team. There is a game coming up near the end of the month, so you'll get to see Quidditch played then."

"Are Gryffindor playing?" Percival inquired.

"No," said Lovegood, "it's Slytherin versus Ravenclaw. Gryffindor's next game is in February, but they're playing Hufflepuff, and Hufflepuff are nearly unbeatable..."

They reached Hogsmeade in what seemed like no time at all. It was a quaint sort of village, and reminded Percival a bit of a more magical Godric's Hollow. He was glad to step out of the frigid cold into a shop called Gladrags that sold wizarding apparel.

As Percival was being fitted for his new school robes, Professor Lovegood sat on a stool nearby and inquired as to how he liked Hogwarts so far.

"I like it a great deal," Percival told him, "only it's very confusing. I can't count the number of times I've become lost since Thursday. And, well, to own the truth, I'm still a bit mystified by all of this. I met a _poltergeist_ yesterday. I didn't even know poltergeists existed a month ago. I didn't know Gryffindors existed, come to that, and now I am one. And then there are hexes, and charms, and potions, and flying broomsticks, and moving portraits – I feel like I'll never be a proper wizard."

"You'll catch on," Lovegood assured him. "You seem bright. I daresay it won't take you long. You're not the only Muggleborn to ever come to Hogwarts – though Muggleborn students are, admittedly, rather scarce right now..."

"Why is that, sir?" Percival asked, spreading his arms so the man taking his measurements could measure around his waist.

Professor Lovegood seemed to be considering what to say. "Well," he began, "the recruitment policy concerning such students is, err, less than adequate."

"But you're the Deputy Headmaster," Percival pressed on, "you write the letters. I saw your name on mine. Can't you change the recruitment policy?"

Professor Lovegood simply shook his head. "I am afraid that such powers lie mostly with the Headmaster."

"Then maybe the Headmaster should be sacked," Percival said without thinking.

He had expected Lovegood to chastise him for this, but the professor simply smiled. "There are many who share that opinion, Mr Dumbledore. But the Headmaster has, shall we say, friends in high places."

They went up to the counter to pay for Percival's robes. "I would suggest paying a visit to the book shop," said Professor Lovegood, "if I thought there was any chance of finding a copy of a wonderful book called 'A Muggleborn's Guide to Magic'. But unfortunately, I think the chances of that are slim."

"Oh," said Percival, surprised, "but I already have a copy of that book!"

"You do!" Lovegood exclaimed, looking shocked.

"Yes," Percival continued, "I bought it in Diagon Alley last month. The shopkeeper told me that it was the last one in stock, that someone had been buying them all." They walked out into the sharp winter air. "But if there are hardly any Muggleborns who know about the wizarding world, then... whoever's buying them must be doing so because they don't want anyone to read it, right?"

"A deduction I am inclined to agree with," Professor Lovegood frowned. "I am very glad you managed to get your hands on a copy. It is, of course, an invaluable resource."

"Have you read it?"

"Of course. I helped to edit it."

Percival stared at him in disbelief. "But your name isn't listed anywhere in it!" he exclaimed.

"No," said Lovegood, "and for good reason. I'd appreciate it if you would keep that knowledge to yourself, Mr Dumbledore. There are those among my superiors who would be none too pleased to learn of it."

Percival understood. "Sir," he said, "I – why is it that so many wizards seem to dislike Muggleborns? I met a boy called Gaunt yesterday - "

"Ah," said Lovegood.

"- and he called me a 'mudblood'. Well, it sounded rather self-explanatory, and not at all complimentary."

Lovegood sighed. "'Mudblood,'" he said, "is a very nasty term of derision for a Muggleborn or half-blood wizard or witch. It is generally considered to be extremely offensive, but I can't say I'm surprised..."

"But why, Professor?" Percival implored. "Why do so many people hate us?"

"It's all about blood purity," Lovegood explained. "There's no justification for it. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. There are those who are of the opinion that pureblooded wizards are more talented, or brighter, or simply _better_ than Muggleborns and half-bloods. There's not a shred of evidence to support this, but it makes them feel good about themselves to think that way, I suppose."

"Well, that's just brilliant," Percival said gloomily.

"Now, don't worry," the professor replied. "A good majority of the wizarding population does not think like that at all. Some, however, are simply prejudiced. Some take it too far... much too far... there are those, of course, who are dangerous. The chances of anyone hurting you are very slight, but I think you should know that there are people who wish to harm Muggleborns and those who sympathise with them. Mostly - "

" – Slytherins?" Percival finished. He remembered the Gaunt boy and Elmira Malfoy. Both were in Slytherin. "Alistair Ollivander said that Slytherins were evil. Is that true?"

Professor Lovegood chuckled a bit. "No, that's not true. Not all Slytherins are bad. Gryffindors – and, I think, especially Ollivanders – sometimes have the tendency to exaggerate the evils of Slytherin. But it is true that most of those who prize purity of blood above all else were in Slytherin."

"So why Slytherin?" Percival asked. "What is it about that particular house?" They passed through the gates leading into the school grounds.

"You really ought to read about the founding of the school," Lovegood said. "We have an excellent library here, and it's an entertaining story. But in short, Salazar Slytherin was one of the founders of Hogwarts, and believed that only pureblooded students should be allowed into the school. He certainly made sure that no Muggleborns would be placed in his House. Eventually he became fanatic to the point of urging violence against the people he termed 'mudbloods', and he feuded with Godric Gryffindor, another of the school's founders, and left Hogwarts forever."

"Ahh," said Percival. "So that's why Gaunt was so proud of being the heir of Slytherin. And that's why he hates Muggleborns. But why does he hate Alistair and Catherine so much? They're pureblood, aren't they?"

"Yes," Professor Lovegood replied, "their families have been fighting for centuries. But this is neither the time nor the place to get into _that_."

Percival sighed inwardly, but the professor's tone had been firm. He reached into his pocket and jingled his remaining coins absently. "I suppose I'll have to change some of my Muggle money into wizarding money soon," he said, "but I have no idea how to go about doing that."

Lovegood looked at him curiously. "But how did you come by the money you already have?"

Percival told him about the Irishman at his aunt's house.

"An Irishman, you say?" Lovegood appeared to be thinking. "What was his name?"

"I don't know," Percival replied. "He told me I could pay him back later, but he never told me his name or where he lived or anything. He had just married one of the girls from next-door, though, and her name was... oh... Mary, I think. Mary Kember."

"Ha!" Lovegood exclaimed, looking very well pleased. "Yes, I thought as much. I'm certain that Irishman was my brother, Matthew Lovegood. If you really felt the need to pay him back, you could do it through me, but I'm sure he won't miss twenty galleons."

Percival laughed at this. "I knew you looked familiar, but I just couldn't place it," he admitted.

As they entered the school again, Professor Lovegood said, "I trust you have written to your parents to assure them of your safe arrival?"

"Err," said Percival sheepishly. "I was actually going to – do that – soon."

"Mmhmm," Lovegood smiled. "And you've explained owl post to your mother, of course?"

Percival cleared his throat nervously. "I never, ah, exactly got around to that..."

"Well," said Lovegood cheerfully, "she's in for a bit of a surprise then, isn't she? I'd suggest you write your letter now, Mr Dumbledore, before Mr Ollivander is finished with his detention for the day."

"All right," said Percival, feeling a bit embarrassed. "Oh, but sir!"

"Yes?" the professor turned back to look at him.

"If Muggleborns never get put into Slytherin, why did the Headmaster think I'd be sorted in there?"

"Oh, Professor Black knew very well there was no chance of you being sorted into Slytherin," Lovegood replied. "He was only saying that to frustrate Alistair and Catherine."

-

_Saturday January 7, 1826_

_Scotland_

_Dear Mother,_

_I am writing to tell you that I have arrived safely in Scotland. I hope that the owl did not startle you. You will have to use it if you want to send letters to me. Oh yes, and you have to send them to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, because that is where I am._

_I hope that you are all well. Have you heard from Rosamund and Edgar Stephenson? And are Louisa and the other Mr Stephenson going to be married or not? I am not sure if I can get away from school for the wedding, if they are having it. I believe that I will have a great deal of studying to do._

_Yours &c.,_

_Percival Dumbledore_

"There," said Percival, setting down his quill. He read the letter over, and then handed it to Catherine. "What do you think?"

"Well..." she said speculatively, scanning it, "it is rather short."

"But I haven't anything else to say," Percival insisted. "I don't see what the point of filling up a letter with trifles like 'and give my regards to Mr and Mrs so-and-so', and 'how is such-and-such a person, I heard they caught cold' is when you don't really care one way or another."

"You could relate an amusing anecdote," Catherine suggested.

"I don't have an amusing anecdote to relate," Percival replied. "And anyway, even if I did, she wouldn't want to hear it. She'll probably have a fit just knowing that I've come to Hogwarts."

The portrait hole opened, and Alistair entered the room, followed closely by Michael Potter. They both came and sat down by Percival and Catherine. Michael propped his feet up on the table in front of him and took a paper bag out of his pocket. "Mother sent me biscuits," he said, peering into the bag.

Percival suddenly realised that this was the perfect opportunity to tell Alistair and Catherine what he had been wanting to tell them for days. The only other people in the common room were off on the other side, and involved in a gruelling game of wizard's chess. Now was the time. The only problem was –

"Want a biscuit, anyone?" Michael asked.

Percival thought quickly, and made his decision. Michael Potter seemed like a decent sort of person. "I have to tell you all something," he said, lowering his voice, and they leaned in confidentially. "But you have to swear not to tell anyone else, all right? Because if this gets out, and it's traced back to me, I don't want to think about the consequences."

Percival told them what had happened on the 27th of December. He left in the bits with Terrence and his lady friend, and Rosamund eloping with Mr Stephenson's brother. He thought that if he was going to tell the story, he might as well make it as entertaining as possible.

"Your family's mad," Alistair informed him.

"I know," said Percival. "But this is the interesting part: Mr Stephenson wasn't the father of my cousin's baby after all. My cousin said that it was Phineas Nigellus Black."

"NO!" Catherine shouted in wide-eyed disbelief, startling everyone in the room.

"Yes," said Percival grimly, "and that's why I don't want you to tell anyone. If everyone started talking about it, and Black found out, I'd probably be expelled. And anyway, what I don't understand is how none of us knew that she was with child. Do you think he – I don't know – magically concealed it or something?"

"Oh no," Catherine said lightly, "some women, it just doesn't show. When Mother went into her confinement for me, the healer thought she had indigestion."

"I can't believe Black seduced a Muggle girl," Michael said, shaking his head. "Black _hates_ Muggles."

"Obviously he doesn't hate them as much as we thought," Alistair put in sarcastically. "But why didn't you confront him about it, Percival? When we were in his office the other day?"

Percival shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know," he replied. "I didn't know what to do. And I wanted to come to Hogwarts. It seemed like my only chance to – well – Black might be sacked soon anyway, right? Doesn't everyone hate him?"

"Well, everyone who's smart," said Michael. "I hope he does get sacked – then Lovegood would be Headmaster. Lovegood doesn't go round seducing Muggle girls. At least, not that I've heard of."

"But if Lovegood became Headmaster, they would have to find someone else to teach History of Magic," Catherine frowned, "and no one can do it like Professor Lovegood does. He's amazing."

"I think Cathy's in love," Alistair grinned.

Catherine went red and glared at him. "You're an idiot," she countered. "I'm not in love with him. He's _old._ Besides, I'm _only_ eleven. What sort of person falls in love at the age of eleven? I've never heard of something so ridiculous."

"Cassandra Trelawney," Michael put it, between taking bites of a biscuit. "They say Cassandra Trelawney fell in love at eleven, and had her heart broken by the time she was thirteen, and never loved again. And that's why she's such a brilliant seer."

Alistair laughed outright at this. "What does being a seer have to do with having your heart broken? I don't believe a word of it. She probably made it up herself, so that she'd sound more – mysterious, or something."

"I don't believe in Divination," Catherine sniffed. "I could sit around and make predictions, and I'm sure some of them would come true as well. It's all luck. She's probably just a drunk."

Percival now could not help wondering what this Cassandra Trelawney was like. Was she a fraud? Was she mad? Was she a drunk? Divination, from what he knew, was all about predicting the future. So she was a fortune teller, wasn't she? He supposed that she would be old and bent, then, probably with blackened teeth and eyes that looked in different directions. She would clothe herself in dozens of shawls and bangles and strange talismans. She would reek of perfume and incense and have long, yellow fingernails like claws.

Whatever she was like, Percival was sure that he would meet her soon. After all, classes began for everyone on Monday, and that meant Percival would be beginning his studies as well. He had already located the library, and picked out some choice books. The one thing he had not done yet was try to cast a spell. He supposed he would have to soon enough, but he wanted to be alone when he did it. If he failed, he did not want anyone else to see.


	11. Chapter X

**Author's Note: **Just to let everyone know, this story is now officially AU, because of the bit of the Black family tree recently revealed by J. K. Rowling. Therefore, Phineas Nigellus being around in 1826 is uncanonical, and... that's it, surprisingly enough. But it does mean that the fic is now technically AU. What does that change? Well, nothing, but I thought I should point it out. :P I'm still going to be sticking to canon as much as I possibly can, and hopefully the only time something will be uncanonical will be in a situation like this, when previously unknown information comes out.

So! Now that we've got that out of the way, hello again! And thanks as always to all your brilliant people who are reading this. This week is shaping up to be extremely busy, so the next chapter may be a couple days late. Hopefully it won't, but I can't make any promises. Fingers crossed! And for now, enjoy this one. Just as a reminder, I'm now posting the chapters in my livejournal as well. 

**

* * *

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**Dumbledore (Part I – The Phoenix)**

**Chapter X - Lumos**

**- **

Monday morning was frigid, just as the morning before had been. This morning, though, the cold air was broken by hundreds of students rushing to prepare for their first day of classes.

Percival got ready and went down to breakfast with the rest of them. He was wearing his new school robes and feeling more conspicuous than ever, even though he now looked just like everybody else.

Aside from this, he was feeling very well. He was refreshed, and wide awake. He had been sleeping well, despite the fact that new places usually made him restless. He was not sure why Hogwarts was different. Perhaps it was the Scottish air.

After breakfast, Percival made his way to the library. By the time he arrived, the corridors were strangely still and silent, as most of the students were now in class. One of the school's many ghosts floated by him, and tipped his translucent hat politely.

Percival reached the library on the fourth floor, and was heartened by the fact that he had not lost his way once that morning. His spirits high, he greeted the librarian (a very old little witch called Madam Mills) cordially. She waved at him with her small, wrinkled hand, and smiled so that her whole face crinkled. "Good morning, my dear!" she said. "Just shout at me if you need anything!"

Percival liked Madam Mills very much. He had never known a librarian to suggest shouting, and he was quite impressed by this. She was also an exceedingly helpful woman, and very kind, and Percival had always liked kind people, partly because he admired that they were even capable of being so very nice.

In the following weeks, Percival rose in the mornings and ate breakfast with the other students, and then went up to the library and studied. It was generally quite deserted, except for the odd few students with free study time, and one ghost in particular, the Grey Lady, who seemed to be there almost every day.

Percival was feeling wonderful. The Scottish air, or whatever it was, had seeped through his skin and into his blood and given him a sort of vigour which he had forgot he could possess. He had written stacks of notes already, and broken two quills. Books stood in little towers on the table all around him. Sometimes he would pause to stretch and watch the dust swirl in a band of sunlight that crossed in front of him, and sometimes he would get up and have a chat with Madam Mills about what he had learnt that day. Sometimes he forgot to go to dinner.

Alistair and Catherine came and sat with him often. Catherine in particular was enthusiastic to help him. She let him try all of the questions that her teachers had assigned her, and soon he could answer nearly all of them correctly. She triumphantly declared that, at this rate, Percival would be at O.W.L. level in no time, and Phineas Nigellus Black would have no choice but to make good on their deal.

In the middle of the month, Percival finally received a reply from his mother. He opened the letter gingerly, half-expecting every inch of it to be taken up with a furious tirade and a demand that he return home immediately, but all it contained were stiff assurances of everyone's health, and Rosamund's marriage, and the fact that Louisa and Mr Stephenson had already been married in a small, private ceremony, and that the baby had been christened 'Guy'.

The end of the month came, and with it came Quidditch. The conditions, according to Michael Potter and Dominic Malfoy, who were both on the Gryffindor team, and were very sorry that their game was not till February, were ideal for playing in. It was unseasonably warm – almost all of the snow had melted, and there was only a slight breeze. The sky was clear, and everyone seemed eager for the first Quidditch game of the new year.

Percival, Catherine, Alistair, and Gilbert Prewett found a seat in the stands next to Professor Lovegood. He seemed to be in very high spirits. "It's always fun to watch a game when your team isn't playing," he said, rubbing his hands together to warm them. "Then you can just enjoy it without worrying about who will win – well, sort of."

"Yes, but even if your team isn't playing, every House has another House that they'd rather see do well than their opponent," Gilbert said.

"And who do Gryffindor usually support?" Percival asked.

"Anyone who isn't Slytherin!" Alistair grinned.

The players kicked off, and rose into the air. Percival, who had never actually seen anyone fly before, stared at them in amazement. The balls flew back and forth, and the players sped around the pitch with stunning agility, and Percival had no idea what was going on, but whatever it was, he thought he liked it.

"Oh look," said Catherine suddenly, about half-way through the game. She nodded her head toward the other side of the stands. "It's Dominic Malfoy's father. What on earth is _he_ doing here?"

"Come to watch Slytherin play, maybe," Alistair mused. "But who's that dark man he's talking to, the one in all the furs and silks?"

"That is Erik Lestrange," Professor Lovegood informed them. "Bourgeoisie – new money. The Lestranges had nothing till some distant aunt died and left them a sizeable amount of gold, and they moved to England and bought themselves into high society."

"Why'd they move to England?" Cathy wondered.

"They had a bit of a reputation back in France," replied Lovegood. "It seems that they were all a bit roguish."

Their conversation was drowned out by the roar of cheers from the Slytherins, who had just scored for the eighth time in a row.

"Oh well," Gilbert said, "no one expected Ravenclaw to win anyway."

"They've still got a chance if they score twice and catch the snitch!" Catherine exclaimed earnestly.

"Three times," Alistair corrected her, "and I don't think they're going to catch anything." They all winced as one of the Ravenclaw chasers dropped the quaffle.

"Do you know..." Gilbert began, squinting across the pitch again. "Do you know... look who's sitting there talking to Malfoy and Lestrange."

They all turned their heads to see. It was clearly the Gaunt boy, looking as unpleasant as ever. Why two very wealthy men would want to have a conversation with a small, dirty boy was beyond Percival.

"Hmm," Professor Lovegood said.

"He's probably begging them for money or something," Catherine said dismissively. Percival glanced over her head at Alistair; he looked worried.

They watched the game in silence for some minutes. Slytherin scored again. Ravenclaw were growing visibly disheartened. Then Gilbert said, "I think they're looking at us."

"Who?" Cathy replied.

"Them," said Gilbert, nodding toward the other side of the pitch. By the time Percival had looked, though, they were watching the game again.

Not five minutes later, Catherine exclaimed, "You're right, Gilbert! They're looking at us! What do you think they want?"

"Nothing," Alistair grumbled. "They're probably only looking at us because _we_ keep looking at them. Just ignore them, or else they'll probably go to Black and get him to expel us for looking at them the wrong way."

The game went to Slytherin. The onlookers filed slowly from the stands. It had begun to rain slightly, so slightly that it was really more like a slowly dripping faucet; still, the sky was becoming overcast, and everyone was going directly into the school.

"Oh, hold on!" Gilbert cried when they were about half-way there. "I've got something in my shoe." They all halted, except for Professor Lovegood who had to go and supervise a detention. Gilbert pulled his shoe off, turned it upside-down, and began shaking it violently.

Percival glanced past him, and started slightly. "Oh Lord," he said, "look who's coming." It was Mr Malfoy and Mr Lestrange. At least the Gaunt boy was not with them.

"What on earth can _they_ want, now?" Gilbert asked exasperatedly, hopping about on one foot as he tried to tug his shoe back on. No sooner had he spoke, though, Malfoy turned and set off in the direction of Hogsmeade, and left Lestrange to carry on toward them alone.

"Maybe we could just... walk away..." Catherine said, eyeing the approaching man uncertainly.

Alistair shook his head. "He's coming straight for us," he replied. "He obviously means to talk to us. Besides, Gilbert hasn't got his shoe on properly yet."

Lestrange reached them in due time. He turned out to be very young – much younger than Percival had anticipated. He was twenty, or twenty-one at the most, and had curly dark hair, dark eyes, and a ruddy complexion. Percival supposed he must be handsome, because he looked a bit like something out of a novel. He frowned.

"Hello," Lestrange said in a pleasant tone, which instantly made Percival suspicious. "My name is Erik Lestrange." He extended his gloved hand toward Alistair, who was standing nearest to him.

Alistair shook hands with him warily. "Alistair Ollivander," he replied.

"Ah, of course," Lestrange smiled. He did not smirk. His lips did not twist into a sinister sneer. Percival was sure that he must be a villain, but, to his frustration, if he hadn't known anything about him, he would have thought him to be a perfect gentleman.

"And this must be your sister?" Lestrange continued, nodding at Cathy and giving her a most congenial smile.

"Yes," Alistair said shortly.

"Indeed, indeed, the resemblance is striking," Lestrange said. "And your name, miss?"

"Catherine," she answered. "Catherine Ollivander. And it is a pleasure to meet you, sir," she finished, shooting a look at her brother as though he were being extremely rude.

"Charming," Lestrange said, clearly pleased with her cordiality. Percival, on the other hand, was rather put out. "And your friends...?" He glanced up at Percival and Gilbert.

Catherine was about to respond, but was interrupted by her brother, who looked none too pleased. "This is Gilbert Prewett – "

"Hello," said Gilbert, shuffling nervously.

" – and Percival Dumbledore," Alistair finished.

Percival shook hands with Lestrange. Ah, now _there_ was a failing! The man had a rather weak handshake. Percival smiled triumphantly to himself. He was on to him. He glanced up at the sky – it was beginning to actually rain now, the sort of drizzle that comes right before the downpour.

Seeming to sense this as well, Lestrange got to his point. "I have a meeting with the Headmaster, and I must confess, I have no idea where to find his office. Would one of you be willing to escort me?"

"I will!" Cathy volunteered.

"We _all_ will," Alistair countered. "Well, come on, unless you all fancy being drenched."

They led him into the school and up to the Headmaster's office, where they parted. Then they headed back toward the Gryffindor common room.

"I thought he was very nice, didn't you?" Catherine remarked, skipping slightly.

"I thought he was a joke," Alistair replied testily. "Parading around in all those furs and silks like he's a king or something. I know richer people than him with more taste."

"Yes," said Percival, "I agree."

Cathy seemed none too pleased at this. "Well!" she huffed. "I don't know what's the matter with _you_ two. _I_ thought he was perfectly charming. What about you, Gilbert? What did _you_ think of him?"

"Err..." said Gilbert. "He was... very... nice."

"You see!" Catherine exclaimed. "At least Gilbert's got some sense."

Gilbert shrugged apologetically at Percival and Alistair.

Some two weeks after this incident, Percival was besieged in the library by Michael Potter, who had decided to take it upon himself to help Percival with his studies that day, since Quidditch practice was cancelled. "Let's do Charms," Michael said eagerly. "I'm brilliant at Charms."

Percival, slightly amused at this assertion, agreed, and Michael set about explaining basic charms to him, most of which Percival had read about anyway.

"But let's try a few," Michael said finally. "Have you done any charms yet?"

"Err... not exactly, not... really... no," Percival conceded, embarrassed.

Michael looked at him strangely. "Why not? Charms are easy, really, very simple, especially the basic ones. I can show you how to do some if you want, right now."

"Oh," said Percival, struggling to think of some excuse, "oh, no, that's all right... I think I'm going to stop for the night anyway. Too much studying, you know... not good... ha ha."

"I know," Michael grinned, "right you are. Too much studying never did any good for anyone, that's what _I_ always say, and I'm usually right. Well, what shall we do? Want to go to the kitchens?"

"Maybe some other time," Percival replied. "I've got to go back to the common room and... write a letter to my mother." In truth, Percival had not written to his mother since his first letter to her. He did not see the need. He simply wanted to escape Michael Potter, and anymore questioning about why he had not attempted any charms.

Upon exiting the library, they were met with Dominic Malfoy. "Oh, hello," Dominic said. "If you're going back to the common room, I'll come with you – I was just looking for Potter." They continued up the stairs together.

When they were nearly there, Professor Black stepped out of the shadows, startling them all. "Mr Malfoy," he said, addressing Dominic. "You will be attending to your prefect duties tonight, I presume?"

"Yes, sir," Dominic replied, "I hadn't forgotten."

"See that you don't," said Black, and he continued off down the corridor.

When he was out of earshot, Dominic made a sound of derision. "He's ridiculous," he said irritably. "Thinks he can do whatever he pleases, doesn't he? And Michael told me all about what happened with him and your cousin, Percival."

Percival did not say anything, but was quite perturbed. He had taken Michael into his confidence, trusting that he would not tell anybody, and here he had gone and told Dominic Malfoy 'all about' his cousin. He supposed that he ought to confront Michael about this, but he thought better of it – what was the use of starting trouble? Still, it bothered him for the rest of the day.

The next evening, Professor Lovegood happened upon Percival, and beckoned him into his (now empty for the day) classroom. Percival had never actually been in the room before, and rather liked the look of it. It wasn't stiff and formal like the classrooms at Eton – it looked more lived-in and comfortable.

Professor Lovegood sat atop a desk and gave Percival a discerning look. "Well, Mr Dumbledore," he said. "Mr Potter tells me that you have yet to try any charms – by which I take it to mean that you have yet to try any spells at all."

Percival sighed and crossed his arms. "Michael Potter has trouble keeping his mouth shut, doesn't he?"

Lovegood smiled. "Yes, well, that is not the point of our discussion, Mr Dumbledore. Why haven't you done any spells? You have been here since the beginning of January. It is now the beginning of February."

Percival was growing increasingly uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat, and stared out the window, rather than meet the teacher's eye. "I don't know," he mumbled finally. What was he supposed to say? He hadn't done any spells because he was terrified that he would not be able to work them? That he would wave his wand and be met with nothing? That everyone would find out what a fraud he was, and he would have to leave Hogwarts and go back to Bath and be a Muggle forever?

Professor Lovegood did not question him further, however. He simply nodded, rose, and said, "I think it is time that you tried a spell or two. Now."

"Now?" Percival repeated, feeling the blood drain from his face. He stood unsteadily.

"Yes, no better time," Lovegood smiled reassuringly. "Wand out – there you go. Now, let's see... I think we ought to start out with an easy one." He glanced toward the windows. The sun had already mostly set, and the classroom was quite dim. "You have come across _Lumos_ in your studies, surely?"

"Yes," said Percival, feeling a bit ill.

"Well, let's give it a try!" Lovegood said. "Just hold your wand steady, out like that – good – and say, _'Lumos'_."

Percival took a deep breath. He closed his eyes briefly. He was being ridiculous, he knew. Finally, with great effort, he said, "_Lumos!"_

Nothing happened.

Percival groaned and put his head in his hands. "You see!" he exclaimed. "I can't do it, I'm no good! I'm not a wizard at all!"

Lovegood laughed, not unkindly, and patted Percival's shoulder. "Mr Dumbledore, _nobody_ does it on their first try. You are not a Muggle. If you were a Muggle, you could not have got a Hogwarts letter, you could not have got into Diagon Alley, you could not have got a wand, and you could not be standing in Hogwarts at this very moment. Really, you must have a little more confidence in your abilities. That's the key right there."

Percival, feeling slightly relieved, and very stupid, said, "Oh."

"Let's try it again," said Professor Lovegood.

Percival held out his wand. He tried to feel confident. He concentrated on what Lovegood had said about all of the things that he had managed to do, because he _was_ a wizard. "_Lumos!_" he exclaimed. A little beam of light shot out of the end of his wand. He laughed incredulously.

"Well, Mr Dumbledore," Lovegood smiled, "it appears as though you've just cast your first spell." Percival grinned. "Say _'Nox'_," Lovegood continued, "that will put it out."

"_Nox_," said Percival. The light went out.

"Congratulations," Lovegood raised his eyebrows. "Now apply that to other spells as well. I dare say your friends will be more than willing to help you. Come back on Friday and we will try some more."

"All right," Percival grinned. He had never felt more accomplished in his life.


End file.
